


You Complete(ly Irritate) Me

by Rrrowr



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Jackson Whittemore, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Bruises, Car Sex, Coitus Interruptus, Deepthroating, Fantasizing, Fingerfucking, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Porn With Plot, Public Sex, Switching, Top Jackson Whittemore, Top Stiles Stilinski, five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:45:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times that it was hate sex and one time it wasn't. Stiles is pretty sure that none of this is his fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks goes out to Deathgetsusall and MrsVC for being my betas on this and for holding my hand while I decided where everyone's dicks went. Love you guys!

The first time, it was about Lydia and long before Derek became a prominent figure in their lives.

Lydia might have ignored Stiles' infatuation with her or been oblivious to it — he'll never know for sure — but Jackson never did. It didn't matter that Stiles was lowest of the low in the school hierarchy, barely holding on to some meaningful status by keeping the bench warm for the lacrosse team and making grades exceptional enough to be cheated off of during tests (and being the sheriff's son didn't hurt either, to be honest). Jackson saw; he knew. He didn't like it, and he made sure Stiles' life was as miserable as possible because of it. Stiles didn't mind. Love was worth a little pain, and in time, Lydia would realize that he was one of the few people in this whole damn town that saw her for who she was.

But sometimes... You can only take so much before you start wanting to fight back. Before Jackson's taunts start landing too accurately. Before his shoulder shoves and cocky false-apologies start fraying Stiles' nerves. 

*

Jackson doesn't take too kindly to Stiles unleashing his wit — least of all in front of the team — and when he stabs a finger in Stiles' face, saying, "You and me, after school. We're going to finish this," Stiles does the only sensible thing he can think of. 

He runs.

Because damn, he's stupid sometimes, but he's smart about it. He's fast and he's not too shabby on the muscle, but he's no Jackson. Stiles is a bench warmer; he doesn't do those late night lacross practices with the rest of the guys. He runs laps — circles and circles, endlessly until he starts thinking that he should've gone with track and field instead of lacrosse except that you don't get dates doing track and field — especially not with Lydia Martin. 

So anyway, running. He's good at that and he's even sneaky about it, going around the school, dodging and weaving through the thickest part of the crowd on his way to the parking lot. He can see his Jeep in the distance. If he gets through the gates, he'll be home free, but Stiles is yanked back by his backpack before he can get out so much as a pre-celebratory whoop.

Jackson doesn't care that he's dragging Stiles backwards, that Stiles' feet are kicking out behind them just to stay upright. And of course, when Stiles gets a look at his face out of the corner of his eye, Jackson is straight-faced and furious even as he grunts with the effort of holding Stiles up and hauling him into the locker room.

When Jackson shoves him against the lockers a few seconds after locking the door behind them, Stiles blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "Just in case you need the reminder, my dad's the sheriff and no matter how much premeditation goes into a murder, you're gonna get caught and that would do bad, _bad_ things to your potential lacrosse scholarships."

"Don't be an idiot, Stilinski. I'm not going to kill you," Jackson snarls, but he knots his fingers in Stiles' collar and shakes him against the lockers so hard that they rattle. "I'm going to teach you a lesson."

"Oh good, fantastic, great. I'm an excellent student, you know—"

"You're going to stop chasing after Lydia. She doesn't give a shit about you," Jackson says and all the panic drains out of Stiles. "In fact, _no one_ cares that you even exist."

It's not the first time Stiles has heard something like that, but it is something that's always boggled him. If no one actually cared, it wouldn't matter what he did. No one would notice. So clearly...

"Really. Not a single one?" Stiles says, straightening up as he shrugs the backpack out from between him and the lockers. Most people don't notice but Stiles is just a smidge taller than Jackson — tall enough to make a difference this close. "Because—" He smiles and Jackson leans in to be all predatory and imposing. Stiles shoves him back and smooths out the front of his t-shirt. "Because it seems like you're giving a shit right now. What's your problem, Jackson? Can't take a little competition? You afraid that Lydia will trade up?"

"Trade down more like," Jackson snaps and then tackles Stiles around the waist and straight back into the lockers.

They scrabble there for a while, almost as if they're slap fighting with Jackson trying to hold Stiles in place and Stiles making it as difficult as possible by flailing and kicking out, and it isn't until Stiles shoves his hands over Jackson's face and into his hair that he gets the upper hand. Jackson's chin jerks up as Stiles pulls, yanking him to the side, but when Jackson tips over, he takes Stiles with him. They crumple into the concrete, narrowly missing the wooden benches, and Stiles gets in a few good claws and kicks before Jackson is rising over him and trying to pin him to the floor. Stiles never quite stops pulling Jackson's hair; he's got leverage like this and he's not afraid to use it, but a hard yank comes with a groan that doesn't sound _pained_ particularly.

Suddenly uncertain, Stiles glances down to where Jackson's holding him down at the elbows, and at the way Jackson is bowed awkwardly toward him with his hair all knotted up between Stiles' fingers. They're tense and still together, and because apparently Stiles has something of a death wish, he tightens his grip in Jackson's hair — to test the theory budding in the back of his mind. Jackson huffs a hot breath over Stiles' neck, trembling ever so slightly with the strain of staying still. Stiles finds out why soon enough; a shift of his legs in an effort to get comfortable brings his hips right up between Jackson's legs. No damage done, but Stiles feels it all the same — that hard bulge that nudges over his hip before Stiles can resettle, that gets shoved against his thigh when Jackson's hips buck downward.

"Oh," Stiles says.

"Stiles, don't even—"

"Wow, I mean. No wonder you're so into lacrosse, man," he says.

"Fuckin'— Shut up, Stilinski—" Jackson's words cut off with a groan when Stiles pulls at his hair for real this time. Nails right up against the scalp so that both of them can feel the way Stiles scrapes over skin and hair to gather a good handful.

"All that sweat and adrenaline and fighting boys that are bigger than you," Stiles says. He laughs a little. "Taking them down? You like that." He can't push up on his elbows very much with Jackson still holding him down like this, but he can get a leg up. So he does that, gets a leg up behind Jackson and shoves him higher along Stiles' body with a knee. Gets him close enough that Stiles can get a mouth up next to Jackson's ear and say, "Does Lydia know? I bet she does."

"I said to shut the fuck up about Lydia," Jackson hisses and then kisses him.

It's brief and biting, and in the space between that and the second, Stiles has enough room to mutter, "Goddamn," before it spins wildly out of control. It's not what Stiles has ever imagined for his first sexual encounter with another person — those usually involved Lydia, and he supposes she is involved here in some seriously messed up way — but it's way more too. There's more fight in it, in the way Jackson covers him and kisses harder when Stiles manages to make noise or when Stiles tugs at his hair. 

Stiles has heard things about what Jackson's done before — hard not to when they share a locker room — but hearing about it is vastly different than being shown it first hand. No pun intended, mind you, when Jackson's hand shoves one of his thighs down and slides between them to cup Stiles' dick. 

Talk about spiraling out of control — Stiles tears his mouth away with a gasp and looks down in time to see the heel of Jackson's palm rub down against his zipper. "I knew it," he grunts. "You and Danny totally slept together."

Jackson scowls. "You think about me sleeping with guys a lot, huh? Maybe I shouldn't have worried about you after all, Stilinski."

Stiles' smile is half a grimace, head dropping back to the floor while his lashes dip. Jackson's touch is rough and a little uncomfortable through denim, but Stiles' body isn't complaining a single bit. He's tense with the effort it takes to keep from bucking into Jackson's palm, but he doubt it makes much difference. Jackson can probably tell how close he is just by looking at him. Still, Stiles can't quite give him the satisfaction of letting him know for sure so soon.

So he grabs on with his one free arm, holding on to Jackson's shoulder and digging his nails in through the painfully thin material he's got for a shirt. He holds on so tight that Jackson grits his teeth hard enough to make his jaw pop, and he says, "I think about a lot of things. Mostly Lydia. I'd be so much better for her than you." 

Jackson's frown is beautiful. Stiles is gonna treasure that expression for the rest of his life.

"In _every_ way," Stiles adds. "In fact, I'm thinking about her now. God, no wonder you have to be the one that has to talk about the things you two get up to. Why would she bother when this—" here, Stiles carves his nails down Jackson's arm to his hand and he squeezes, folding the fingers into a curve that's more appealing, "—is your idea of foreplay?"

Stiles expects Jackson to fight back. That's just what they do. He thinks maybe Jackson will shove him around some more, but instead Jackson's lip curls. "You know what I think, Stilinski?" he says, eyes narrowing. "I think that you're enjoying this a little too much. You talk big. You think you can handle a girl like Lydia? You think that you can do better than me?"

There's a minute shake in Jackson's words, like it's taking every scrap of his control to keep his voice steady. Jackson licks at his lips, chewing briefly on his lower one before he spits out, " _Fine_. Think whatever you want. But that's _my_ girlfriend you're thinking about and that's _my_ hand you've got against your dick." Then, alarmingly, Jackson bends to Stiles' neck, inhaling deeply against his jugular and laughing when Stiles bares his throat. "As soon as you figure out which it is that's actually making you hard, you let me know."

Jackson leaves Stiles on the ground like that, so hard that he aches with it, and frustrated, Stiles hits his head against the concrete for good measure. It was a dick move, making it about Lydia and Jackson's relationship at the end. Everyone knew how rocky they were together, how her devotion was directly proportional to his popularity. Stupid to have thought that Jackson would've responded well to a challenge like that and not make Stiles pay for it.


	2. Chapter 2

Ostensibly, the second time is because of Scott. Rather, it's because Jackson knows something's up with Scott, and — because Scott's sort of lousy at keeping secrets — it's Stiles that's doing most of the work in keeping Jackson off their tracks. Fact is, Stiles isn't at his best when Jackson corners him after school. After all, he's dealing with Derek being lurky and non-helpful and threatening, and Scott is maybe kind of sort of turning into a werewolf superkiller who doesn't recognize that Stiles is his friend — his human friend and, more importantly, very breakable. That's not even getting into the very stressful knowledge that there's an Alpha werewolf on the prowl around town and Allison's dad is a werewolf hunter. 

The point is that Jackson is honestly the least of all of Stiles' problems even when he is being a nosey little fuck that can't help the way he rough houses Stiles into the boy's bathroom between chemistry and world history while making demands for the truth about Scott's steroid use. That Jackson's theory is so totally not what's going on makes Stiles more exasperated than anything. 

"Really?" Stiles asks, throwing up his hands in surrender — placatingly, he hopes, though when Jackson throws the lock, that hope promptly drop kicks itself out the window. "You realize the last time we had an encounter like this, things didn't go so well?"

And sure, maybe that encounter was like, months ago — before summer, before any of this supernatural murdering shit started cropping up in Stiles' life — but neither of them have been acknowledging it as far as Stiles can tell. Acknowledging it now is a dirty move, maybe, but Stiles has learned quickly that he can't afford to play fair when everyone else is bigger and stronger than him. 

"Don't play games, Stilinski. I know you know what's up with McCall," Jackson says, advancing.

Stiles keeps his hands in the air and backs up against the far wall of the restroom. "So what if I do? You think _you're_ gonna make me talk? I hope your interrogation technique has improved since last time. I've got such fond memories." He plays a bit at putting a hand over his heart and mocks a heavy pout. "Really, I do."

Yeah, okay, so maybe when Jackson crowds him against the wall with the same intensity as he had last time, Stiles has to clamp down on the urge to flee. He's making bets here — calculations he wouldn't have made before, given normal circumstances — but he knows what Lydia's like. He know that she's maybe forty percent evil on a good day, ambitious as all hell, and not afraid to get a little mean in order to get what she wants. So Stiles thinks it's pretty safe to say that Jackson's relationship with her has hit an even rockier status than usual since Scott started improving in lacrosse. He also thinks it's pretty safe to say that she's blue-balling the hell out of Jackson until he shows that he's still the top dog — pun intended — and that it's probably eighty percent of the reason behind Jackson hounding — ha! — Stiles now.

The other twenty percent being the tense, rigid way that Jackson gets in his face, silent and waiting — like he thinks he can stare Stiles down into confessing. Jackson's lip starts to curl, irritated when Stiles doesn't immediately crack — he's one step away from animal already, honestly — and Stiles licks his lips, gaze darting toward the locked door and then back to Jackson's face. 

When Stiles decides to throw his chances to the wind, put both hands on either side of Jackson's face, and kiss him... Well, let's just fall back to how Stiles isn't at his best right now. Stressed, alright? Stressed and on edge and so what if he hasn't had any chances for improvement on the sexual front since Jackson had him pinned to the floor in the locker room? 

Stiles remembers.

One hand in the hair, pulling just so, and the other tilting Jackson's face up slightly so that Stiles can fit his teeth around the soft swell of his lower lip. Jackson's like a combination lock really — fifteen seconds of lip nibbling right, twelve seconds of hair pulling left, bypass hip grabbing to three seconds of ass-grabbing body-rubbing goodness right, and _bam!_ Jackson pops open with a moan so hungry that Stiles can't help but answer it. 

It's satisfying as all hell to have Jackson react like that — reluctantly and unintentionally, especially when Stiles was put away wet last time. Stiles knows better now than to think that there's even half a chance that Lydia's to blame for this. It's just the two of them — Jackson with his frustrated need to be the best and Stiles with his need to be needed. Whatever. The point is that Jackson gets his hands in Stiles' clothes and yanks to keep him in place. 

Stiles knows better than to say anything — he's determined to not repeat the mistakes of last time and it's kind of a recurring mantra of his life these days. Don't mess up. Don't make mistakes. Be flexible, but not stupid. They're the rules for the very thin line that Stiles has walked between life and death ever since Scott turned. Usually he saves them for nights of the full moon and Derek when he's in a mood — which is always — but Stiles feels safe using them with Jackson too.

Quiet means that he can't accidentally set Jackson off in an angry huff, but apparently being too quiet is suspicious. Jackson presses up against him so hard that Stiles loses his breath in the hit, shoulder blades smarting thanks to the tile walling, and then Jackson is _against him_ — as in, Stiles can feel the hard length of his cock lining up against his through their jeans, shifting and rubbing while Jackson hides his face in Stiles' shoulder.

"Jackson," Stiles gasps, voice doing something stupid and sweet around the name.

It goes straight into Jackson's ear, which means that he tightens his grip briefly on Stiles hips before sliding one hand possessively over his ass and under his thigh to heft Stiles' leg up. All to hear the way Stiles moans when they press back together again.

He can't move much, holding himself up on just one leg while the other hooks over Jackson's hip, but Stiles is fine with that. Let Jackson do all the work — and boy, _is he_ , rocking their hips together, clenching and unclenching his hand under Stiles' thigh, and mouthing at this one spot on his neck with so much determination that Stiles is considering the possibility of Jackson having become a vampire without anyone noticing.

Not that his survival instincts are kicking in anyway — vampire or no. He's all greed now — another thing that he can't help, not with the way Lydia still ignores him day after day or the way Scott refuses to listen to reason thanks to the damn wolf or the way that life doesn't see the unfairness of Stiles being threatened for no good goddamned reason. It's about time that he got something that's just his, and let's face it, when it comes down to it, Jackson probably doesn't do this with just anyone, and Stiles _wants._ He wants to be desired, to be needed, to have all the keys to someone else's life for him to use and possess.

Jackson groans as he shifts, and Stiles feels it like a shivery twist up his sides and into his shoulders as he says Jackson's name with a breathless shout. His reward is Jackson's mouth, slotting over his — slick and heavy-lipped and stupidly, sinfully plush and drifting away far too quickly, like he thinks that kissing is something they've already tried and failed at. Which, ugh — fuck Jackson. Kissing is awesome when they do it.

Stiles carves his nails against the back of Jackson's skull, refusing to let him budge an inch while Stiles still wants to suck on his tongue. Jackson gives in after a moment of that, returning the favor with a small huff, and if Stiles thought that he was getting kissed before when it was still him coaxing Jackson into this, it's nothing compared to getting it when Jackson's determined to prove something.

Jackson's voice is a rumbling gravel when he murmurs something unintelligible against Stiles' mouth, and then it's their hot tongues pressing against each other, meeting halfway while they twist together. Stiles feels the knee of his supporting leg beginning to buckle, straining to hold him up, and he claws against Jackson for purchase, hand just barely scooping under the collar.

He moans Jackson's name again, and Jackson snarls. "I'm gonna—," Stiles starts to say, and he means that he's gonna come, but his balance is wavering and Jackson just laughs and bends and suddenly Stiles is scooting up a few inches up the wall and Jackson's curving his body between Stiles' legs and scooping his hands under him at just the right spot for Stiles to feel the tips of his fingers making deeper creases in his pants. It feels close, so close to where Stiles wants them that he stops breathing for the threat of having it and clutches all the harder to Jackson's shoulders.

"Gotcha," Jackson says, half of a grin flirting at the corner of his mouth — all stupidly, crookedly handsome just like the rest of him — and Stiles hates him terribly. He really does.

But still he rocks against Jackson and whines and bites his lip when it starts to get too much, when the surprise of being lifted off his feet melts right out of him, and Jackson holds them as tightly together as he can and Stiles kisses him messily so that he can't look him in the eye and lets his breath shudder, hot, along the angle of Jackson's jaw as he comes — wordlessly, thank god. He isn't sure he could take it if he said Jackson's name a third time.

Then Jackson jerks against him hard, shivering, and a hissed, "Stiles," escapes past his teeth, and every idea that Stiles has ever had about this being about Lydia or about Scott or about their lives going to shit seems to be not at all enough anymore.

Stiles doesn't know if the same conclusion occurs to Jackson, not even when they sort of collapse to the floor, with Stiles still crowded up against the wall and Jackson between his legs, but they stay like that for a long, long moment — tangled together. Jackson pants against Stiles' neck while he catches his breath, and Stiles breathes more quietly, more slowly while he strokes his fingers across Jackson's nape. 

Of all the things that Stiles might have expected from a post-orgasmic Jackson, quiet would not have been on his list of adjectives. Cocky, sure. Smug as all hell, of course. Like there was some sort of mental tally that Jackson kept of his conquests and Stiles was sure to be one more notch on his bedpost, even if Jackson wouldn't want to admit to getting off with someone so low on the social totem pole. 

Instead, he gets Jackson pressing his face gently into the crook of Stiles' neck, just breathing, and he gets Jackson's hands curling and uncurling against his bare sides, hitching up his shirt with their thumbs, like he's trying to work the blood back into his fingertips. Then Jackson laughs, leaning back.

"Been a while for you huh?" Jackson says, grinning as he gets his hands behind him. Stiles' legs are still inexplicably thrown over Jackson's thighs. Neither of them move to separate more, which — whatever. It doesn't have to mean anything.

"No longer than it's been for you, I bet," Stiles snarks back — too quickly because he bets anything that Jackson's summer was just filled with Lydia. He doesn't want to say that it isn't the same for him. That it never is.

"Yeah," Jackson drawls. "I bet. S'good though."

"Are you kidding?" Stiles asks, palming his dick with a faint grimace. He's sticky and probably a bit chafed and he's never frotting in jeans ever again — at least, not unless they're tighter than these. Too loose and suddenly there's all this friction to leave him uncomfortable afterwards instead of just sated. "You're lucky that school's over because god, I need a shower now."

"Shower's good too," Jackson notes — uselessly, Stiles might point out, because Jackson is apparently the kind of guy that's like... drugged out on sex. Jackson squirms out from under Stiles' legs and onto his knees, adjusting himself as he goes with the same partial distaste sliding over his expression. "If it's such a big deal," Jackson says as he hooks his fingers in the waist of Stiles' jeans and fucking drags him across the floor so that he can bend his mouth to the inches of bare skin at his hip and bite down. 

It's just a light drag of his teeth across the bone, but it makes Stiles' breath hitch and his dick twitch, regardless of damp and uncomfortable underwear. Stiles puts his hand on Jackson's head, not quite petting and not quite trying to hold him in place, and Jackson licks over the patch of skin he's marked up with his teeth on his way to turning toward Stiles' wrist, and damn if he doesn't fit his teeth there too, even lighter than before.

Stiles cups Jackson's face with that hand and turns him. "It's kind of a big deal," he says instead of kissing Jackson like he's so very tempted to do now. He's talking about how he hates coming in his pants — honest, he is.

"Well," Jackson says, brow dipping down like he thinks it's amusing that Stiles is being particularly dense at the moment. "Then we'll just have to take off our pants next time, won't we?"


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles has never really considered himself to be a lucky man. He’s never been picked first for a team and he doesn’t win raffles. The first girl he’s in love with isn’t likely to give him the time of day because she’s dating the most popular, most attractive, most malleable guy in the whole school. He’s sixteen years old, and until recently, the only action he’s seen is from his own hand and the old ladies that pat his ass and give him cheek kisses for being the handsome sheriff’s incredibly sweet son.

But then Jackson happens, and Stiles has enough time to think that it's a one-time-only thing before Jackson happens again. And you know what they say: once is an accident and twice is coincidence and three times...

Three times is when Scott's flaked out on him after the video store fiasco. The fact that Allison is also absent is a giant clue-by-four as to what Scott's off doing, but the knowledge does nothing to help with the fact that Lydia hasn't shown up in her classes either or that Jackson looks so unstable that Stiles is preparing for him to explode at any second. The third time is him tracking Jackson down instead of being cornered first and splaying his hands when Jackson starts freaking out for an exit. He doesn't need Jackson bolting because _Stiles_ is apparently too much of a threat to deal with today.

"Get out of my way, Stilinski," Jackson grits out with none of his usual snarl. His expression fails to carry out the typical pinched aggression, and the way he tenses — shoulders hitching high and chin trying for a jutting angle — has more to do with him putting on a brave face than trying to get away from Stiles. "I didn't see anything last night."

"Yeah, uh-huh." Stiles completely believes him. He circles a finger in the general direction of Jackson's face. "Because seeing nothing is totally the reason for the nervous sweats and the trapped attitude."

Jackson clams up, retreating a couple steps. 

"Hey." Stiles splays his hands some more, drops the sarcasm, and lets his voice lean toward a softer tone. "Relax. I know... I know last night was probably scary, right? But you're fine now."

Huffing, Jackson twists away, rubbing at his face. "Don't..." He sniffs and rolls his shoulders. "I don't need you to make me feel worse, Stilinski. So mind your own business."

"Yeah about that," Stiles says, gaze dipping low. "You've never been that great about letting me do that, so can't say I'm inclined to return the favor."

"Not that you give a shit," Jackson says as he rolls his eyes toward Stiles.

Stiles sidles closer, tentative. "I don't, but let's pretend I do," he says and ushers Jackson toward the wall. "In fact, let's pretend that I can afford you flipping out over last night. You need to blow off some steam."

Jackson shoves at his shoulders when Stiles boxes him in against the wall, but it doesn't do more than change the angle of Stiles' approach. It's not enough to push him off or stop him, and Stiles murmurs, "Let me," before getting his hands at the waist of Jackson's jeans. Stiles makes more comforting noises, not even saying anything in particular against the exposed length of Jackson's throat, and breathes out one hot sigh into his collar as he jerks open Jackson’s fly and finally gets a hold of his dick. 

Their first time was an accident — two boys upping the ante on each other and going places they didn't expect. The second time was tentative. Experimental. This third time is neither of those things. The boldness that Stiles feels when he finally pulls Jackson free is something new and amazing. They're face to face, but it's not the easy, flat press of their bodies together — no simple slotting against one another. They're tangled, twisted together — with Jackson's hands fisted in his shirt sleeve and at the back of Stiles' collar — and Stiles has one arm curled behind Jackson's waist while the other hand jacks at his half-hard cock. A quiet gasp slips out of Jackson's mouth. Stiles hears a thunk when Jackson tips his head back against the wall and murmurs a sound in return that makes Jackson harden within his fingers even faster. 

"There," Stiles says, unable to keep the tone of swelling smugness out of his voice. "Feeling better already, aren't you?"

"Sh-shut up," Jackson grunts.

If Stiles weren't so occupied with the reality of another guy's cock in his hand, he'd tease him. He understands that stutter, though — knows the way his own body aches to be touched liked this and sees a reflection of it in Jackson. Stiles laughs to think Jackson is so affected by him that he's reduced to this shuddering level, and when Jackson squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fingers more tightly in Stiles' shirt, Stiles murmurs against the stiff line of Jackson's jaw, "I seem to remember you saying last time that we should get our pants off."

Stiles shifts his trajectory for Jackson's mouth, but Jackson gets an arm between them before their lips so much as brush. "Hey now!"

Jackson merely shoves him back, and he should look ridiculous with his hard cock peeking out from his jeans while he watches Stiles stumble and fall backwards— Well, let's be real, he totally looks ridiculous, but Stiles only notices that Jackson's advancing on him. Ridiculous or not, Stiles has no problem with being advanced upon.

"We're not making a habit of this," Jackson says as he grabs the back of Stiles' head. There isn't much hair for him to get a hold on, but Stiles leans forward on his knees anyway. He knows where this is going — or he thinks he's pretty he sure he knows — since Jackson is holding out his cock to Stiles' face. "This doesn't mean anything."

"Sure, it doesn't. Not a thing," Stiles reassures him and shoves down his nerves in favor of taking Jackson in his mouth.

Considering he's never done this before, Stiles expects nothing but awful to result from this, but to say that he's unwilling because of imminent failure would be an outright lie. It's not happening under the most perfect of conditions — though frankly, Stiles has not put a great deal of thought into what _would_ be the perfect conditions for learning how to give head — but his curiosity is boundless. Given opportunity and desire, there's nothing in the world to stop him from finding out what Jackson tastes like.

It's not like porn, exactly. Stiles has some idea of things he'd like to try and so he sucks haltingly, trying to lick every inch he can reach. The act is sort of distractingly strange until Jackson makes a choked sound above him and his fingers twitch against the back of his head. A glance upward shows Jackson's head tipped back, his Adam's apple bobbing around a thick swallow, his chest expanding with a deep breath, and Stiles closes his eyes again, falling forward.

There's an easy rhythm to it, Stiles finds. Every spasm of Jackson's fingers tells him when he's hit a good spot — every jolt of his hips, every startled and shuddery gasp — and he follows it with his tongue, with his mouth until Jackson's voice turns ragged above him. He sounds destroyed up there, as if Stiles has found the key that gets him past the impenetrable wall of that painfully douchebaggy personality, and Stiles wonders — as he slips further, moaning despite himself — whether Lydia takes Jackson apart like this. Surely, with that great mind of hers, she could do it easily, yet Jackson trembles and sways toward him as if this particular feeling is new. So maybe not, or not for a while. Maybe Stiles is the first, and wouldn't that be thrilling?

Jackson's hips jerk forward, and Stiles pulls back, gagging, only to have Jackson's hand cradling his head and holding him still. Stiles has to get a hand between them to keep from choking, to wrap around the slick length of Jackson’s cock and give him a channel to fuck while Stiles sucks and swallows the generous amounts of precome that are spilling out. 

It's messy and awesome, and tentatively, Stiles lets Jackson's dick go a little further. And a little further than that. Until it's pressing at the roof of his mouth and following the curve down into his throat. It feels thick and gorgeous in his mouth until he realizes that breathing — oh that's a problem. Then Jackson curses around Stiles' name, and Stiles pushes him back, yearning for breath, just in time to catch a load of come across his tongue and cheek.

"Christ," Stiles says after he's swallowed some and sucks more off of his lower lip. 

He feels dizzy and on edge, with a fever running under his skin, and when he feels Jackson's fingers running through his hair and squeezing at the back of his neck, Stiles turns to pant against the soft skin of Jackson's hip. There just doesn't seem to be enough air still, even without a dick being crammed down his throat, and the only consolation is the sound of Jackson fighting for recovery too, breathing deeply as he looks down at Stiles with a wondering glint in his eye that Stiles feels is entirely justified.

"So," Stiles huffs. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

If Stiles totally uses Jackson's startled — and disgruntled — silence as a prime opportunity to nibble his way across some finely cut hips in order to pull some lingering reaction out of him? Well that's probably the reason why Jackson pulls him to his feet by his jacket and slams him against the wall.

Maybe there's a universe in which Stiles doesn't react positively to wall slamming, but this universe is not it. It probably speaks volumes about his personality — possibly to some deep seated addiction to adrenaline rushes after a lifetime of video games and even more likely, a self-created defense mechanism to the increasing violence in his day-to-day activities. Whatever the reason, Stiles first reaction to Jackson shoving him against the wall probably shouldn't be to try and kiss him.

And thank god one of them knows that, Stiles thinks — though a part of him whines at having his hands pinned to his chest and Jackson staying well out of kissing range.

Then Stiles really _does_ whine — out loud, and no take backs — when Jackson's free hand undoes the front of Stiles' pants and then takes him in hand with a dry palm. He hadn't realized until then how hard he is, just from sucking Jackson off, and he sags, leaning into the weight of Jackson's pinning arm so he can stay upright. His vision goes hazy, his lashes dip, and Stiles knows he's making noise. He can feel every sound vibrating past his lips, his chest heaving for breath as Jackson's hand works him over at a relentless pace.

He's mildly aware of Jackson watching him. Every time his eyes drift open, their gazes meet, and Stiles is caught repeatedly by the intensity there — the frustrated and baffled curiosity. He sympathizes utterly. This thing between them — the thing that leaves the taste of come in Stiles' mouth and the thing that makes Jackson touch him... It's inexplicable and meaningless and meaningful and stupid and useful and nothing that he'd go looking for on a normal day, and yet—

Jackson's lip curls, his fist pulling fast at Stiles' cock, and Stiles thrashes, wanting to arch into the touch and wanting to claw at Jackson's shoulders and wanting to smother all the sounds spilling out of him against Jackson's mouth. They're so close, Jackson having closed the space between them by an inch or two at some point — close enough that Stiles can feel Jackson's breath on his cheek if he strains for it. 

Stiles' eyes close as a particularly good feeling sparks through his nerves, and oh, oh — "Jackson," he gasps, and then there he is, kissing him when he's too close to the edge to think about it. Stiles kisses back greedily, moaning as he pulls at Jackson's lips with his own and being ever so grateful at how hungry Jackson seems when he pushes for more and more and more.

"Come on, Stiles," Jackson murmurs between those wrecking kisses. "Don't be a bitch."

"Fu— fuck you, oh Jesus," Stiles wheezes back. 

But Jackson is relentless, pressing so close now that he doesn't need his hand to hold Stiles' arms across his chest. "Come on," he says again. "I wanna see you lose it."

"Ah, as—" _asshole_ , he means to say, but Stiles is pretty damn distracted by his orgasm, coming between their bodies and staining their clothes and — "Oh, Jesus fuck." Because his legs are weak as all hell, Stiles is glad that Jackson is feeling generous enough to help him sit down on the ground. Still: "We should probably stop having sex against walls. It's bad for my ego."

To Stiles' surprise, Jackson stands and steps back, grimacing as he wipes his hand on his shirt. "You're right about one thing," he says.

"Oh, that can't be good. Jackson telling me I'm right about something." Stiles lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe at the come that's still on his face and cants a brow in Jackson's direction. "Care to elaborate on that?"

"That we should stop having sex against walls," Jackson tells him and Stiles would smile except there's something about his tone... "In fact, we're not going to doing this — this _thing_ — ever again."

Stiles tilts his head this time to get a better look at Jackson's face. He certainly seems adamant enough. Possibly even sincere. 

Wiping at his upper lip with his hand, Stiles slowly pushes himself to his feet. "We're not?" A laugh escapes him. "Just in case the class needs a reminder, this _thing_ started because of you. You were the one that dragged me into the locker room that first time—"

"Well _I'm_ ending it!" Jackson snaps and then takes a steadying breath to keep his voice low and calm. "I don't need this."

"Yeah," Stiles scoffs, rolling his eyes. " _Sure_."

Jackson's lips peel back from his teeth. "I _don't_. I've got plenty of other things to give my attention to — the lacrosse team and Lydia. My _girlfriend_ ," he stresses. "I don't need you thinking that this is going to become a regular thing or that this means anything because it doesn't."

The laugh that burbles out of Stiles' mouth is faintly hysterical. "Me? You think I'm the one we have to worry about developing an unreasonable attachment? You've got to be joking."

"I'm not joking," Jackson says.

Stiles leans back, reassessing his view of Jackson, then throws up his hands. "Fine," he says. "You're clearly having issues, and as of now, they are no longer my problem." He straightens out his jacket and finds his backpack near the door, slinging it over his shoulder before looking back at Jackson. "And while we're cutting loose from each other, I think it'd be a good idea if you stayed away from me from now on. From Scott too. And my dad."

"Not from Lydia?" Jackson asks.

The grin that stretches his mouth feels sharp — cold. "Oh, that would be unreasonable, Jackson. After all, she's your _girlfriend_. I can't get in the middle of that."

Stiles is already taking off through the door when he hears Jackson shout after him. "You're lucky she hasn't caught on, Stilinski!"

The implication sours Stiles' mood completely. It's only a few minutes later, after Stiles has escaped to his Jeep and found the spare set of clothing to change into, that he realizes he's pulling a fresh shirt on with shaking fingers. He grumbles at the sight of them. He's angry — of course he's angry. What kind of fucked up individual ends a... not-a-relationship-thing right in the middle of an afterglow?

Lucky, Jackson said. What a laugh.


	4. Chapter 4

"Hey, baby," Stiles murmurs as he trips down from the porch to the driveway. "You look like you've had a rough night. What did the big bad wolfy do to you?" His fingers slide across the the jagged edges of his Jeep's hood, finding the claw marks and exposed metal. "He ripped out your battery without even asking, didn't he?"

He croons a few more comforting words as he raises the hood to get a better look at the damage. The metal complains as it rises, and Stiles winces before using the rod to hold it open. There are snapped wires, ruptured hoses, and bent support beams everywhere. It's a mess, like pretty much everything that's happened tonight.

"Oh, sweetheart, you're going to be an expensive fix, aren't you," Stiles says sadly. "All your bits and pieces are all over the place. Dad's gonna ream me when he gets the bill, huh? Don't you worry about it. We'll get you towed to the shop in the morning and all fixed up in time for the winter formal." He strokes the engine block a little.

A scoff sounds from behind him. "Winter formal? Why would you even go? It’s not like you're going to have a date," drawls an irritatingly familiar voice. 

When he turns around and finds Jackson leaning on the hood of his Porsche, Stiles isn't surprised, but at least he can be thankful that the sight doesn't drag down his mood any further than Scott's behavior after the Alpha's attack. There's nothing quite like your best friend admitting that he had entertained thoughts of killing you, even if it was against his will. Having Jackson show up is just the rotten cherry to top off an already shitty day, and Stiles wishes he could've had more than a week since the last time they were alone together — like _this_. Because let's face it, they're doing this again. Stiles can taste it in his mouth, faint and stale like old blood, and he hates that he knows it's coming — that he's going to give in — as much as he enjoys that Jackson is the one who's crawling back.

"Jackson, what a surprise. What are you doing here?" Stiles asks — as if he doesn't know. The urge to get in Jackson's space is hard to resist, pavlovian and strong as hell, and he leans against the grill of his Jeep to keep from stepping forward instead. "Shouldn't you be... I dunno, dropping Lydia off or something? Cause you're definitely not supposed to be here. I mean, gosh, one of us might get the wrong impression."

"Don't sound so bitter, Stiles," Jackson croons, sloping forward like he has a right to be anywhere near Stiles or his home. "I might start thinking that I hurt your feelings or something. And _gosh_ —" A smirk crooks his mouth, "—we wouldn't want anyone getting that impression, now would we?"

Stiles' head drops back, and he looks to the sky with exasperation. There's a lot of things he'd be oh so happy to get off his chest right now — most of them having to do with Scott, funnily enough — what with everything that happened with the mountain lion and then Lydia and the full moon and then the high school. He could use Jackson's skin to cleanse himself of all his issues — to walk away just as Jackson did, as if this was nothing. 

Except that he doesn't want to do that. Or rather, he shouldn't want to — or he does want to walk away and knows just how fucked up it is that Jackson's reluctant helpfulness tonight and his obsession with achievement and all his angry, sexual insecurities aren't the deterrents that they should be.

"You know what. I don't have time for this tonight," Stiles bites out, and pushes off the front of his Jeep and into Jackson's space. He shouldn't, but he does it anyway — he pushes Jackson back until he hits the side of his Porsche and jabs a finger against his chest. "You know what you don't get to do tonight? You don't get to come back, expecting me to drop everything and give you what you want. You dropped me, remember? And nothing you say—"

 _Nothing you say will change that,_ Stiles wanted to say. It would've been true, even.

Jackson doesn't say anything, though. He brushes off Stiles' accusing finger-jabbing, clasps one hand behind Stiles' neck, and kisses him. It's the easiest and smoothest goddamn kiss they've ever shared. Jackson knows exactly how Stiles works — from the way he angles into a kiss to the second it takes for him to remember he doesn't want this — and by the time Stiles breaks away, Jackson's already bitten his lips to redness and licked his way in with a possessive tongue.

"Fucking asshole," Stiles snarls, twisting Jackson around so that he's face to hood with his precious car. He doesn't want to think about how easy that is either — how Jackson allows himself to be moved like Stiles is playing right into his hands again — but he can't help acknowledging it in some way. "This is what you came for, right?"

Laughter bubbles up out of Jackson's chest while Stiles yanks his jacket down to his elbows to keep his hands bound. "This isn't for me, moron," Jackson says. "Haven't you heard from Allison yet? I'm a nice guy these days. Or has the line of communication broken down between her and Scott?"

"You know very well that it has," Stiles tells him. 

Jackson tries to shrug, but it's hard with his arms caught in his coat. His whole body ends up rolling in the attempted gestures, sliding back into Stiles and — God help them both, Stiles gets hard over it. "Oh well. Not my problem," Jackson replies offhandedly. "My point is that I came because I knew you'd need me. And I knew you'd never turn down a chance to get at something you'd never have otherwise. So, you see, this is really charity on my part—"

Stiles goes still all over.

"Ah, I forgot that charity was a forbidden word on this side of town. My bad."

It's a low blow and one that most people wouldn't go for. Stiles chews on his tongue while he considers it, and the automatic pain blossoms in his gut like an old bruise. He thinks about hitting Jackson like he had at the school — really laying one in on him so hard that he falls from that ridiculous pedestal — but that feels a bit like losing. Admitting to the pain and the hurt is as good as showing Jackson all his weaknesses, and that's the last thing Stiles needs right now.

Lifting a shoulder, Jackson glances back at him. "Stiles?"

"You're a real prick, you know that?" Stiles says, shoving Jackson's face back down against the Porsche's hood. 

Stiles shoves one of his hands under Jackson's body and finds his zipper. He doesn't waste time. He's not here to make this moment memorable for either of them — not in a good way, anyhow — but even so, the way Jackson shifts to give him room... Stiles bypasses Jackson's dick as much as he can. He doesn't want to touch it, though he knows it's probably leaking profusely, and he resents being able to smell that arousal when he shoves Jackson's pants down and pulls his hand back. He especially resents the way his mouth waters in anticipation, wanting so much for him to fall to his knees and treat Jackson to the same devastatingly good head as last time. His throat, too, works and swallows and aches to be stretched and Stiles hates Jackson for making it so goddamn easy to want him and despise him in equal measure.

"This is what's gonna happen, Jackson. I'm going to touch you, I'm going to come on you, and I'm going to leave you," Stiles says and pets his hand over Jackson's hip. "You can try to change my mind about that, but I doubt it'll work."

In Stiles' neighborhood, street lights are few and far between, and the landscape is mostly lit by the houses that line the block, with their porch lights dotting the road with dim spots of brightness. So when Jackson's jeans get pushed low, the orange glow from the Stilinski family home makes his tan skin seem incredibly warm under Stiles' hand. He stays there for a moment — just like that, squeezing the plush skin until his fingers leave behind bloodless marks — and tries desperately to control his breathing. It's a struggle, one that makes up entirely for the fact that Jackson isn't fighting at all. Jackson's staying still, letting Stiles do what he wants, and Stiles feels... feels crazy with it. Like dizzy, blood hot, half-blind crazy with it. 

"You're insane, aren't you?" Stiles says. "You're insane and you have no idea what you want and you're relying on _me_ to know—"

Jackson shifts into his palm with a harsh sound, his knuckles knocking against the Porsche at his sides. "Just do it already, Stiles!"

"Yeah," he agrees. 

Stiles pushes Jackson's jeans down another inch and gets a handful of thigh, stroking upward and watching Jackson's ass cheek swell over the heel of his palm. Stiles holds it there, pressed obscenely upward, and slips his fingers in the shadow between Jackson's legs. He teases the tangled hair and the hot, hot skin there until Jackson rolls away from the touch, grunting as he hits the Porsche's unyielding shell.

"Eager little shit," Stiles says absently as Jackson continues rutting against the car, moving in tiny circles. Getting a hand between his legs, Stiles finds Jackson's dick leaking all over the side of the car, which is cool against the back of Stiles' hand as he cups Jackson's length and angles it down. Jackson gasps and presses hopefully into Stiles' palm. "Oh, no, sweetheart. I don't think so."

It's not an easy transition. Stiles holds Jackson down with one hand on his shoulder and teases Jackson's cock with the other, gathering a mess of precome over his fingers. It feels thick and slick in his hand, but it's exactly what Stiles is looking for. Jackson outright whines when Stiles pulls back, and Stiles squeezes his shoulder and neck, soothing his noises. Then, laughing faintly, he drags the flat of his wet fingers over Jackson's hole. Jackson's reaction is sudden, severe — his whole body jerking with surprise, following Stiles' fingers with a sweet cant of his hips, and even rising on his toes to makes sure he doesn't lose the connection. He makes a sound, which Stiles hears even though Jackson tries to smother it against his shoulder: a terrible, needy cry that makes Stiles grin, sharp and a bit ugly, with joy.

"Oh, what's that? I'm not sure I understood you. Could you repeat the question?" he says, and then rubs his fingers around Jackson's entrance until he's thrusting helplessly at the touch. "You're usually so much better at this, Jackson. Am I distracting you? Do you want me to stop?"

Stiles puts his body over Jackson's, trapping him, but keeps up that aggravating pressure that makes Jackson writhe and buck despite the trembling effort he puts into keeping still. Jackson is slippery wet where Stiles touches him now. It's easy, easy, easy to tease at the idea of getting a pair of fingers inside him — to let his fingertips catch at Jackson hole with enough pressure to give him a solid idea of what it might be like to have more — and Stiles is mouthing at the back of Jackson neck when he moans. He feels the vibration of it right through his lips, in his ribs, and quite against his own will, Stiles grinds against Jackson's hip.

Jackson makes a plaintive little sound, then: "Stiles..."

And oh, he has no _right_ , Stiles thinks, to sound that close to begging already when Stiles hasn't done half of what he wants. So when he yanks down the zipper of his jeans, Stiles makes sure that Jackson can feel it. He wants Jackson to feel the sharp teeth scraping against his ass at the same time that Stiles is biting bruises into the back of his neck. He wants to give Jackson a shame that he can't hide — a hickey, a limp, or a wild-eyed expression whenever he crosses Stiles' path again.

Stiles would like to give Jackson a hell of a whole lot of things to keep him from being able to pick up and throw back Stiles like a toy, but for now, he starts with his dick. He's so hard that it's pushing out past the zipper without his help, still covered by the thin cotton of his underwear and wet with precome. It's a relief to be a little free and to be able to replace the rub of his fingers with something thicker.

"What do you think, Jackson?" Stiles asks as he pushes the bulge of his dick between Jackson's ass cheeks. It feels tight, with Jackson gasping and pushing back against him, but Stiles can't help pushing boundaries, shoving with more force so that Jackson is bumping against the Porsche. "Is this something you want?"

Jackson's voice breaks with a whine. He peers over his shoulder at Stiles with heavy lidded eyes, mouth slack against the steel grey of the hood. He's drooling — Stiles sucks at his lower lip at the sight of it because he hadn't noticed, hadn't realized... — and his face is a mottled pink. Blushing bright above swollen lips, and he says, "Stiles, please..."

Stiles’ fingers slide to Jackson's hips and hold tight in anticipation. "What? What d'you want?"

Squirming, still caught by the sleeves of his jacket, Jackson moves like he'd very much like not to answer, but when Stiles pushes the jut of his dick over his entrance, Jackson groans like he's dying and says, "Please, please..." He fogs the car's surface with his breath. "Give it to me."

Starting to smile, Stiles says, "You need to be more specific—"

"Your dick, asshole!" Jackson snarls, thrusting his ass backward as he bows his head toward the Porsche. He sounds like he's sniffling. His shoulders heave as he gropes for a calming breath. "I... I want it. I fucking want... Just give it to me."

Stiles hums and reaches up to pet Jackson's hair. He tugs on a few locks and leans down to lay a few, slow, wet kisses over the angle of his jaw. "No," he says, smiling when Jackson moans pitifully. "This is all you're getting."

He fucks Jackson like that — with just his dick sliding between Jackson's cheeks, underwear getting wet from the precome Stiles spread there earlier. He hints at what he could give Jackson, thrusting fast and hard, and their hips smack together with a steady slap that starts turning Jackson's skin a dusty pink. It feels good to watch him squirm — with shame, with want — but even that isn't as good as Jackson begging for him, which he's doing now. A slew of pathetic, needy, little words stumble off the tip of Jackson's tongue with a bit of effort, and Stiles fucks him all the harder for it, hot with the knowledge that he — Stiles Stilinski — has ruined Jackson so thoroughly as to make him beg.

He puts his hand at the base of Jackson's neck, feeling every shift and buck of his body and the way he jerks with each thrust like a livewire that sparks under friction. There are scabs under his fingertips; rubbing around them makes Jackson _shake_ , and Stiles loves it. He loves how it makes his blood burn — makes his senses tumble as he slides his hands over Jackson's skin, finding the divots that he's licked and kissed and tasted. Stiles loves how clearly Jackson asks for more — shivering and scrabbling and turning to find Stiles over his shoulder like he wants to kiss — and how wonderful it is to deny Jackson everything.

Yet despite all that, they move together along the precipice of something more — something closer. There's an ache in Stiles' hands to see how wet Jackson is, to gather that slick in his palm again and get Jackson's hole so sloppy with precome that Stiles could just... just—

Stiles gasps as he comes. It's painful and takes him by surprise with how strong it is. Jackson is rigid underneath him, thrumming with the need to come and waiting to see if Stiles will let him. Stiles takes a moment to breathe in the thick sweat at the nape of Jackson's neck and rubs his thumb through the the thin smattering of come that marks the curve of Jackson's ass. There isn't as much as he thought there would be — not at all up to the usual snuff when it comes to what Jackson does to him — but all the same, Jackson curses fluidly when Stiles smears it between his cheeks.

Breathing deeply as he pushes himself up and off of Jackson, Stiles stumbles back a few steps and watches as Jackson stays where he is for a moment before slowly jerking free of his jacket and letting it drop to the ground. Stiles' hands are shaking as he pulls himself together, but he does it as quickly as possible, wiping his hands off on his shirt and rubbing his face with his shirt sleeve. By the time he dares to look again, Jackson has only managed to pull his pants back up; he's still leaning over the side of the Porsche for support.

Maybe yesterday — maybe ten minutes ago — the sight of Jackson being so slow and uncertain about his movements would've brought Stiles some pleasure. Instead, a grim expression settles across Stiles' face, and he picks up Jackson's jacket from the ground.

"Arms," he says, holding the jacket open. Jackson complies and Stiles helps him get one arm in and then the other, tugging it up over Jackson's shoulders. He lets his hands rest at Jackson's shoulder blades and, taking a steadying breath, says, "Thanks. For your charity, I guess." 

Stiles hopes that he doesn't sound too distant as he says those words, but there's no helping that he ended tonight feeling like nothing good came out of them this time around. It was a snarling outpour of anger and frustration and hurt, but nothing more than that. He certainly doesn't feel as if he's walking away, lighter than before. 

So much for dumping all his issues onto Jackson; Stiles' feet drag like anchors as he shuffles toward his house, not daring to look back and see what Jackson's doing — if he's watching or driving away or, hell, jerking off over his own car. He doesn't want to know one way or the other, honestly.

He doesn't see Jackson watching him climb up the stairs and disappear into the house. He definitely doesn't see Jackson scrubbing at his cheeks with the back of his hand, still watching and still hard, before quietly getting into his car and leaving.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coda: Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, I know that you guys have been waiting a while for an update on this and I just want to thank you for your patience! Also thank you to Dea, my sweet sweet bb, for betaing this for me.

It barely takes a couple minutes for Jackson to drive the distance between his house and Stiles', but tonight, he makes it in half that. His house is a looming presence ahead of him, but Jackson doesn't notice it — barely cares, for once — as he storms through the door and up the stairs to his bedroom. He's harder than he ever remembers being and aching with a deep humiliation. He grits his teeth as he takes himself in hand, remembering all the words that have spilled out of him tonight and how sincere they felt. 

Stiles had been heavy over him — a pleasurably hot weight that stood between him and the chilly night — and Jackson thinks of that as he presses up against his bedroom door. Stiles didn't let him do this earlier, didn't let Jackson touch himself, and barely touched Jackson himself. He only did enough to get spunk on his fingers so he could get Jackson wet.

Jackson shoves his pants and underwear down with a distasteful grimace, kicking both away as he slides a hand under his shirt. He feels sticky, covered with sweat and come. It cooled on the drive home, and he squirms now, trying to alleviate the sensation. It just reminds him of how he squirmed under Stiles, pleading for Stiles to just— to just—

He takes a gasping breath as he fists his cock, thinking, _Fuck me, fuck me,_ and imagining what it would've been like if Stiles had simply done as they both had wanted. 

At least, he hopes Stiles wanted it.

Tonight wasn't about fucking. Jackson knows that, but it had given him what he'd wanted anyway. He knows what it could be like now. He knows how Stiles' fingers feel over his hole and that Stiles can still kiss his neck while touching him. He knows what Stiles sounds like when he's trying to rile Jackson up, and he knows what it feels like to have Stiles' dick on him and how he fucks. With a tight breath, Jackson bunches his shirt under his chin and reaches back to touch his ass. There's a phantom sting on the back of his thighs from the vivid memory of Stiles' hips slapping against his, and as he squeezes one cheek, his dick twitches in his hand. 

"Shit," he curses as his legs threaten to give out on him, and he stumbles toward his bed, shamelessly landing face first in his sheets. 

He pants there for a moment and pumps his dick until it leaks over his fingers, in order to avoid thinking about the gaping emptiness above him. Instead, he concentrates on how open he feels like this. The stance of his knees on the bed's edge spreads his backside wide for exploration; it would be easier than anything for Stiles to just get up behind him. To just slide his dick there, where Jackson's unsure fingers are pressing.

The fling of his arm toward the nightstand earns him a smarting wrist when he catches the corner on accident, but he hardly feels it as he yanks open the drawer and scrabbles for the lube he keeps there. The scant seconds it takes him to smear a bit over the ends of his fingers and drop his face back down to the sheets feel immeasurable, but soon he's arching — chest flat to the bed and legs spreading wider and one shoulder lifting backward as he circles his fingers around the edge of his hole. He skirts the idea of what he really wants, wondering if the reality of having something inside him will measure up to the fantasy he's got worked up in his head, but then his fingers find the rim just like Stiles' fingers had and he presses in a little just to see. The huffy little gasp that punches out of him comes with a whimper on the tail end, and what had just been the tip of one finger turns into him pressing it in to the second knuckle, twisting it around when the lube doesn't seem to be quite enough.

"What do you think, Jackson?" he remembers Stiles' saying. Stiles sounded breathless, then, like he was hoping. "Is this something you want?"

Groaning, Jackson presses his face into the sheets, hiding his face as he finds the lube again, and instead of a light dollop, his shaking fingers spill lube across every digit and into his palm until it's dripping down the sides and onto the sheets. He curses, but forgets the mess as he tries again. This time, his finger slips in with hardly any resistance at all.

The second one takes time, and Jackson breathes heavy and deep as he concentrates, working his fingers inside at a slow, steady pace. He feels wet and sloppy and there's lube sliding down the inside of his thighs and down the length of his cock, which goes untouched while Jackson pumps two fingers into himself and marvels at how tight he is — how difficult it is to move his fingers when they get past that ring of muscle. It makes him wonder if Stiles will even fit, or come the day it happens — if it happens — would Stiles have to take the time to work Jackson open just like this? 

Stiles would, Jackson thinks, breath hitching against the curl of his fist. If not out of consideration for Jackson, then because Stiles would want to drag it out, torturing Jackson with the long game and making sure that he'd be begging for it long, _long_ before Stiles pulled his dick out.

And as Jackson moves his fingers as deeply as he can, right up to the knuckle, he thinks that Stiles maybe... Maybe he'd make Jackson do the prep for him. Or maybe he'd only give Jackson his fingers, no matter how much he begged for something more. After all, tonight showed that Stiles is at least a little immune to his pleas — which isn't fair at all, as far as Jackson's concerned. It just isn't — it isn't right for Stiles to have the upper hand, to have all the cards, to be able to walk away from Jackson without looking back when Jackson wants him so much.

The idea of a Stiles who wants him makes Jackson writhe, and he squeezes his eyes shut, imagining it as he palms the inside of his thigh for some lube and takes himself in hand again.

He thinks about Stiles fucking him. He thinks about Stiles touching him — possessively seeking out the divots and planes of Jackson's body. He thinks about Stiles' mouth against his spine, teeth carving along the length of it while he clasps Jackson's hips and drives into him with enough force to make Jackson shout. He thinks about Stiles's hands wrapping around his cock, pulling fast and hard, while he whispers into Jackson's ear, "I want you. I want you. I love watching you come, Jackson. I love you, I—"

The words skitter hard across Jackson's nerves without warning. His whole body jerks in response — flinching, almost — and with a sound like a sob, Jackson comes. It strips his mind of all thought in that moment, leaving him weary and empty in its wake, and very slowly, Jackson turns over onto his back, wiping his hands on the sheets before holding them in front of his face.

They're still shaking, faintly, and the sheets didn't do much to remove the lubricant's slick residue or the increasingly tacky feel of come between his fingers. He doesn't feel like moving, though. Or being awake. Or being in love either, now that he thinks of it.

What a joke.


	6. Chapter 6

The call comes late — after midnight, well after Stiles' father has finished yelling at him for getting into a car accident with Mrs. McCall and her date. (Stiles wishes he could tell his dad that it was a totally justified action and that everyone would be thanking him if they knew that he'd probably been saving Mrs. McCall from an almost-certain, incredibly bitten death-slash-life-changing-experience, but frankly, he kind of enjoys being the sneaky hero of the day. Anyway, the point is—)

Scott's voice is drugged out and dragging. He's safe with Deaton, he promises, but _Jackson_ — Jackson was there. Jackson was with Derek, and he might have been hurt by the hunters that ambushed them. Scott doesn't know, though, so can Stiles please, please, pretty please check on him?

"Sure, Scott. No problem, Scott. Whatever you need, Scott. It's not like I wrecked my car for you, Scott," Stiles mutters to himself as he kicks it toward Jackson's house on his bike. (Jeep is fine, thanks for the concern, but her keys are in the Sheriff's hands for now.)

It's not even that he doesn't want to check on Jackson. It's that he has to and feels resentful about it. The bike ride to Jackson's house only takes ten or eleven minutes, but that's more than enough time for Stiles to work up a good, hard fury over what an idiot Jackson has been lately. He hasn't heard details about the blackmail that he's been holding over Scott so that he can become a big bad werewolf, but it's not difficult to guess. He doesn't know what weird things Jackson's whispering to Scott across the lunchroom. Stiles has eyes and ears, though, and he can see for himself that, when it's not selling Scott out to the Argents, it's Allison.

And of course — _of course_ — Jackson has to start acting all stupid and arrogant again, throwing his swagger around the school without Lydia around to even justify that kind of behavior. Which — okay. When Lydia was next to him, also throwing around swagger, it just made sense, but Jackson, The Bachelor should not be cool. That behavior grabbed the attention of people who no one should ever want — you know, _hunters_. So it's really all Jackson's fault that Stiles is tipping his bike against the side of his house and eyeing the huge trellis that leads super-conveniently to the bit of roof underneath Jackson's bedroom window. 

He can see some faint light above him. It's not the most that Stiles could hope for. For all he knows, Jackson has always had a night light — and god wouldn't that be a little adorable? Widdle Jacks being afraid of the dark — but Stiles takes it as a good sign.

Though he's never climbed to the second floor of this particular house before, Stiles is used to doing this very thing thanks to years of sneaking in and out of Scott's place — and Scott doesn't have a trellis. So by comparison, Jackson's house basically has a giant welcome mat laid right at Stiles' feet. The climb is the easy part; scooching the three or so feet across the roof to Jackson's window is a bit more difficult.

Stiles glances in. Jackson's room is huge and almost terrifyingly clean. From what Stiles can see in the dim lighting, it's all sharp, modern lines — not at all what he would've expected from the room of a teenage boy. In fact, the only clutter on that entire expanse of taupe is a light scatter of clothing, smeared with dirt and dust — shoes, jacket, jeans... Stiles follows their trail right to the bed, but finds it empty.

Breaking in is a harsh term for what Stiles does next. The window is unlatched for one thing and a bit open for another, so Stiles doesn't have to break anything in order for him to get inside. He's sort of disappointed that it's not more difficult, in fact — that sliding through the window didn't involve tripping over a whole bunch of stuff or having to scramble to return some ridiculous knickknacks to order. He closes the window behind him, though, spins around to get a good look around him, and promptly gets knocked across the cheek by someone's fist.

 _Ah,_ he thinks as he falls ungracefully to the side. _Jinxed myself_.

Stiles flails his limbs in the general direction of his attacker. He's no fighter by any stretch of the imagination. Given a choice, he'd run — provided he hasn't been given a good goddamn reason to fight — but he doesn't have much of a chance, even as he stumbles backward toward the desk and knocks over a tiny lamp. The light swings, flashing across the bedroom, and briefly illuminates Jackson's face just as Stiles is grabbed by the front of his shirt and slammed against the wall.

"Jackson?"

The lamp, still swaying on the edge of the desk, rolls just enough to cast some light in Stiles' direction before falling to the ground. Jackson's grip on him doesn't loosen at all, but his shoulders sag. "You scared the shit out of me," Jackson says.

"Yeah, well." Stiles tries to shrug but is still pretty firmly pinned where he is. The wall against his shoulder blades is almost comforting — a familiar position after all the times he's been put there — but more so is the way Jackson is relieved to realize it's Stiles but doesn't immediately drop his hands either. It's nice to know that near-death experiences don't change everything. Stiles pats Jackson's arms and then slides a hand to cover one of his wrists, squirming some to test his grip. "Jesus, Jackson. This is getting a bit routine, don't you think?"

Ignoring the question, Jackson turns Stiles' face to the side so that the light is across his profile, and his fingers gently find the edges of the marks along his cheekbone. They're probably red and maybe they'll bruise, but Jackson doesn't ask how much they hurt. Instead, he slowly drags himself away and asks, "What the hell are you doing here, Stiles?"

After brushing off the front of his shirt, Stiles straightens his sleeves out like he's trying to make himself presentable. "Funny you should ask because I came up here to see if you were alright," he snarks and then gestures expansively to indicate Jackson's appearance. "Not that you look like you need checking."

Jackson looks perfectly fine, is the thing — not even a little scratched up — and he certainly doesn't look as if he got threatened by Derek Hale while hanging out alone with him in the burned out husk of a house in the middle of the night or subsequently chased off by hunters with guns and exploding arrows and shit. From the state of his undress, in fact — which would be just boxers, not that Stiles is complaining about the view — it seems like the noise Stiles made while climbing up the trellis woke Jackson straight out of sleep.

"I mean, whatever, I guess," Stiles adds with audible irritation, scratching above his brow as his gaze dips down the length of Jackson's body and straight to his bare feet. "Scott was worried."

Jackson brushes past him toward the desk and picks up the lamp from the floor. "Well Scott can stop worrying. Clearly, I'm fine, so you can leave."

"Excuse me?" Stiles turns to follow Jackson and blocks him in between the desk and the wall with one arm. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Leveling a snide look in his direction, Jackson says, "It means that you can leave. As in, go to the window and climb down the way that you came." Jackson clasps Stiles by the shoulders and moves him out of the way. "I'm busy, and I don't want you here for it."

Stiles doesn't want to let it get to him, but he knows when he's being brushed off. The sight of Jackson's back is infuriating, however. He doesn't like that he can't see Jackson's face, and he doesn't like that he can't tell what Jackson's thinking.

"Hey, I know we didn't end things on the best of terms last time, but I didn't come up here just to be sent down all over again," Stiles says, striding forward and grabbing Jackson's arm.

Jackson whirls around — and that's better, that's loads better. Stiles can see the fire in his eyes when he snaps, "What the hell do you want, then?"

"I want to know you're alright!"

"Why does it even matter to you?" Jackson demands.

Stiles does a double-take, but he doesn't let go of Jackson's arm. "Why does it matter? Because if it hadn't been for Scott, you'd be a dead man! You had to get rescued from Derek freakin' Hale, and you shouldn't have been out there in the first place. Why did you even go?"

Jackson jerks his arm out of Stiles' grasp. "It doesn't matter why. I did it because I wanted to, and it had nothing to do with you!"

For one white hot second, Stiles is so angry that he can't form words. Just looking at Jackson makes it hard to breathe — he's _that_ angry. Turning away is no help. He can still feel and hear Jackson behind him, and he scrubs his hands through his hair. When he thinks he can look again, Stiles jabs a finger in Jackson's face. "You're the biggest idiot in the whole _fucking_ town, you know that? I can't believe you would just—"

"It's not up to you," Jackson tells him firmly. "You don't get to tell me what to do, Stiles, and you don't get to control me."

Stiles huffs. "I'm not trying to control you." ( _Not anymore anyway_ , he silently adds.)

"Bullshit. It's always been that way with us," Jackson says and gestures accusingly between them. "It's always been you making me feel—" He cuts off abruptly and throws his hands to either side. "It's not like you actually _care_ —"

Though his body still aches from their scuffle earlier, Stiles has never felt more satisfied by throwing another punch or by seeing Jackson's face snap to the side while Stiles shakes off the pain in his fist. He glances at the window and starts toward it, sure that he's outstayed his welcome by now. He only gets a couple steps before Jackson is grabbing him by the back of the head and kissing him.

Stiles doesn't even have to think before he gives into it, before he's hugging his arms around Jackson's rib cage and opening his mouth. Jackson makes this sound — a hitch in his throat, a hiccup nearly — as his hold on Stiles readjusts, as Jackson frames Stiles' face with his hands. His thumbs press around the bruises over Stiles' cheekbones. It hurts, but Stiles doesn't care, though he hisses when Jackson's bites down over the split in his lip and worries the cut with his tongue until it's bleeding again.

"You're such an idiot," Stiles mutters, grunting when Jackson makes a soft noise of absent agreement before moving his kisses along Stiles' jaw.

He tilts his head to give Jackson room and stares at the ceiling. Jackson's mouth is plush and soft against his throat. His hands are rougher. His calluses scrape against Stiles' sides as he sneaks touches under his shirt before skipping pretense altogether by palming the front of Stiles' pants.

"Shit," he curses, somehow surprised, and pushes Jackson away.

For a moment, Jackson looks confused, perhaps a little lost, but then Stiles starts shedding his hoodie, his shirt. He's got a lot of catching up to do, what with Jackson already down to boxers, but Jackson's quickly there to help him. His fingers catch the waist of Stiles' jeans, and their lips naturally angle together again as Jackson pushes down the zipper and slides his hand into the open vee to see how hard Stiles is.

"Fuck you're gagging for it tonight," Stiles says against Jackson's mouth, kissing him with his words as he pushes them toward the bed. Jackson's hand is hot against his dick and the heel of his palm presses down as his fingers curl to find the tip. Stiles groans and grabs a handful of Jackson's hair. "Why’re you so hot tonight, huh? You got an adrenaline junkie thing I should know about?"

"What's it matter why?" Jackson drops down onto the bed and yanks Stiles' pants down to his ankles. He looks up at Stiles through fine, blond lashes as he mouths his way up his legs. "You're gonna fuck me either way, right?" he asks, a grin dancing at the corner of his mouth.

Jackson opens up and leans forward like he's gonna suck Stiles' dick through his underwear, but Stiles slides a hand through his hair, pushing Jackson back while he toes off his shoes and kicks his jeans to the side. He strokes his thumb down behind Jackson's ear, and then his hand drops to Jackson's neck so that can feel the soft jumping of his pulse. 

"Maybe I won't," he says, but he still gets his knee up on the bed, crowding Jackson until he's lying down. "Is that what you're after?"

A laugh slips out of Jackson's mouth as he scoots up to give Stiles room, and as Stiles presses Jackson's thighs wide with his legs and slots between them, Jackson falls silent with anticipation, voice caught in his lungs as he waits to see what Stiles will do.

What Stiles does is rock forward, nudging their dicks together through two layers of cloth. They've done this before. It feels as good now as it did then. Still — as Stiles watches Jackson's head drop back to expose the long line of his throat and as he presses his fingers into the spaces between Jackson's ribs to feel them expand with breath — Stiles can't help but recognize that he had almost lost this.

Had Derek followed through with his threat — without Scott, or hell, even the hunters to stop him — Stiles might not've been so lucky to find Jackson at home. Everything that sat between them — festering and unspoken — could have ended tonight. It would've been Stiles' secret to hold forever, unable to explain to Scott or his dad or anyone why Jackson's death affected him as much as it did Lydia.

"You're weird tonight," Jackson comments, pulling him close with his legs. His hips push up with every nudge of Stiles' dick. "We gonna do this or what?"

"Haven't decided yet, to be honest," Stiles replies, and ignores Jackson's irritated expression in favor of putting his mouth on that vulnerable stretch of skin beneath Jackson's ribs.

Jackson huffs but nonetheless arches under him, and his hands squeeze over the tense muscle of Stiles' shoulders — encouragingly, maybe. It's hard to tell when Stiles is kissing and mouthing his way down the midline of Jackson's body, steadily progressing toward getting his face near Jackson's dick. 

When Stiles finally gets close enough that he has the hard swell of it pressing against his jaw, Jackson sighs — a trifle unsteady. "Alright. You just let me know."

Laughing, Stiles pulls Jackson's boxers down and doesn't hesitate to get his mouth around his cock. Giving head, he's discovered gets a little more fun each time he does it. Though it feels almost like he's doing the same motions, Stiles likes that he can make Jackson fall apart. Tonight, though, Stiles takes it easy. He sucks Jackson slow — just to feel him and hear him clearly over everything else.

Jackson trembles underneath him, thighs twitching as Stiles shoulders his way closer and runs his hands under Jackson's waist. He's quiet — or at least he's trying to be. When Stiles glances up, Jackson's got his hand over his mouth, smothering his sounds behind the fold of his fingers and casting distressed looks toward the door. 

Licking a broad stripe over Jackson's belly, Stiles smiles faintly at the flex of muscle under his tongue and straightens up to say, "If the fight didn't wake up your parents, I don't think this will either."

"Easy for you to say," Jackson whispers shakily. His lashes flutter and his chest heaves briefly. "You're not the one getting his dick sucked."

Stiles hums, pleased with himself, and strokes Jackson a couple times before putting his mouth back on him. Jackson's hand slaps against Stiles' shoulder and scratches its way to the nape of his neck while Jackson bites back his gasps. Moaning around Jackson's dick, Stiles gives in to the desire to tease him. While one hand tucks itself under the curve of Jackson's spine, Stiles' other hand folds into the narrow space between his legs and presses upward. Automatically it seems, Jackson tries to splay his legs wider. His knuckles follow the clenching curve of Jackson's ass and then push into the slick crease between—

Startled, Stiles pulls off Jackson's dick to look down between them, but the light is too dim to see much of anything. Still, he explores closer with his fingers, and sure enough, when he finds Jackson's ribbed opening, it's wet to the touch. Jackson's hole gapes, kissing his exploring fingertips as they skip across it, and above him, Jackson whimpers.

Looking up, Stiles finds Jackson watching him through heavy lidded eyes. 

Without saying anything, Jackson darts his tongue across his upper lip, and Stiles rises onto his knees, bending to cover Jackson's mouth — to chase that tongue with his own while he teases Jackson with his fingers. 

A little while ago, the idea of doing this had made Stiles feel uncomfortable — too much as if Jackson is using all his knowledge of Stiles as a tool to manipulate him — but this is different from before, when Stiles was toying with Jackson's need as a way of asserting his power. This is something Jackson spent time and energy into giving himself without the promise of Stiles discovering it later, and Stiles cannot help but be spurred on.

Something feverish and hungry overtakes him. Stiles wants to make Jackson noisy with life — wants to make him burn hot — and he kisses Jackson with enough strength to bruise, cupping his jaw so hard that his knuckles ache. Stiles' cut lip stings with the pressure, but he can't stop. He can't even hesitate when a slight twitch of his fingers between Jackson's legs manages to wrench a moan out of his mouth. Stiles yearns to pin Jackson down and climb inside him, to dig into a place where Jackson can never be rid of him. It's tempting as all hell to pick up where Jackson left off, and Jesus, why not? Stiles has him arching eagerly underneath and their legs tangled together, so why not go that extra step? It isn't as if Jackson's never wanted to, after all, and it isn't as if Jackson's complaining now as Stiles slides a finger inside him.

Jackson arches into the sheets and just spreads out — god, like there's nothing in him that's made to fight Stiles off. Stiles stares at the solid curve of Jackson's ribs as he slides down to the end of the bed, and he watches the stuttering rise and fall of that chest as he works his finger deeper. It barely takes any effort on his part at all to add a second — that's how loose Jackson's made himself, that's how little he's rejecting Stiles — and Jackson releases a ragged breath around Stiles' name.

"You want it that bad?" 

The questions slips out of Stiles' mouth without thought as he pushes in a third finger. Stiles hooks his other hand behind one of Jackson's knees and pushes it wide so that he can suck at the thick tendon to the side of Jackson's dick. When Jackson keens, Stiles puts some effort into tearing his gaze away from where Jackson stretches around his fingers, glistening. 

Jackson's covering his eyes with one hand while the other clutches at the inside of his thigh, near where Stiles teethed a line of red marks. "Fuck," he croaks out, shaking as Stiles' fingers crook inside him, and slaps his hand against the bedspread. "Yeah, yeah, I— Here, just..."

Stiles fingers slip out as Jackson twists toward the head of the bed. Jackson's just one long line of muscle flexing under freckled skin as he stretches an arm toward the nightstand, knocking aside a bottle of lube that Stiles hadn't noticed in the dim light on his way to the drawer. Jackson's legs drag across the bed, and Stiles automatically rests his hand against Jackson's thigh, brushing against the grain of the thin hair.

When Jackson shimmies back down, he has a condom between his fingers, and he pins it against Stiles' chest until he takes it from him. Stiles pinches the packet; it feels thinner than he thinks it ought to. It opens easier too, than he thought it would with lube slick fingers. Jackson pushes up on his elbows to watch — to shift his weight to one arm so that he can reach for Stiles' dick and help him get the condom on. Their fingers tangle together, and Stiles holds his breath at the push of Jackson's fingertips along the length of his cock. 

A smug smile curls at the corners of his mouth as he guides Stiles' dick between his cheeks with only a little bit of looking, and his lashes flutter as Stiles just slides right in, bottoming out with only a little resistance. Stiles is breathless. No matter how loose he was around Stiles' fingers, Jackson still feels like a vice around his dick, and besides that, Jackson's _face_ — Stiles never imagined the spontaneous smile that brightens his expression or the way that Jackson drags his tongue across his lower lip as Stiles scoots closer on his knees.

Jackson lies back, eyes closed. Stiles moves with him, bracing over him and trying to be as conservative with his movements as possible, and mouths at Jackson's sweaty shoulder and the hard line of his collarbone. Stiles' is glad for these things that shift beneath his lips — the skin, muscle, and bone. These are things he should be used to by now, considering — the taste of Jackson's skin, the feel of Jackson's fingers skating over his belly, the way they push and pull at one another as they finally begin to move — yet Stiles is overwhelmed by them. Every touch becomes another reminder that, had things gone differently tonight, a moment like this would've lived only in Stiles' fantasies, so he touches greedily to feel the reality of Jackson's body. 

Stiles smooths a hand over Jackson's arm, bringing it up over his shoulders, and Jackson clasps him by the neck on automatic. He gives in to the way that hand directs him and pulls Jackson's head to the side by his hair so that he can taste the rapid, bounding pulse at his neck. Jackson says his name, light and delighted. His fingers dig into Stiles shoulders and slide into Stiles' hair, cupping his skull and encouraging him to suck and bite high and leave a mark. 

"Yes," Jackson says before angling for a kiss — before sucking at Stiles' mouth and at his lip with a rumbling moan. "Yes."

Basking under Stiles' attention, Jackson happily turns into the bite of Stiles' teeth, leaning into the hand Stiles puts on his cheek to guide him. They kiss as Stiles' fingers continue to skitter across his skin, sliding down the length of his body to thumb at the sweat gathering in the angle of his hip and then further down to grasp at his thigh and heft Jackson further onto the bed.

He knew already that Jackson was built, but it's different at night — different without street lights to color Jackson's skin in warm hues that softened his edges or the fluorescent lights of the high school that harshly outlined everything in bright blue. Night casts a thick shadow, and Jackson's desk lamp can only reveal so much. Here, Stiles has to touch to be sure of anything, but pressed tight like this — with Jackson's arms around him and his legs encouraging every thrust — Jackson is a wall of rolling power. There's nothing Stiles can do but go along for the ride.

It's too much, Stiles thinks. There are a million words catching in his lungs — words that probably need saying, words he probably knows he should say — but Stiles can't get them out. They're too big to give voice. It's bad enough that he knows that they're there, but keeping them locked away takes so much strength that his fingers fumble.

Stiles pulls out of reach and watches Jackson as he slides in deep. Jackson flounders a bit without Stiles there to hold, and he ends up with one hand near his mouth, curled against his cheek and poised to smother any loud sound that might make itself known, and the other seems to be resisting the temptation to jerk off, twitching and clenching near Jackson's belly button.

Covering Jackson's hand with his own, Stiles thinks about Jackson getting caught by Chris Argent again — how close he'd been before. He isn't sure what hunters are like yet; maybe they wouldn't bother checking to see if Jackson was actually a werewolf or not. Maybe to them, it wouldn't matter. Chris seems like a professional sort of dude. He would give Jackson a swift death. It'd be a knife because knives were quiet, and Stiles thinks about Chris Argent finding Jackson alone and sliding his knife into the skin beneath their hands.

So quick and quiet that Jackson wouldn't have time to scream.

Jackson touches Stiles' cheek for a moment — quickly aborting the gesture to grasp Stiles' neck. His lashes dip and flutter as they fuck, and Stiles thrusts harder because of it — to wrench out of Jackson all the trembling sounds that mean that he's alive. Jackson's fingers twist with Stiles' between them, linking tightly for a moment before Stiles manages to pull their hands apart. Then, bowing over, Stiles hides his face against Jackson's neck.

There are pinpricks of pain on the back of his shoulder, but Stiles ignores them. So what if Jackson's going to leave a mark with his nails? They — just like the sound of Jackson's strained cries — are going to be Stiles' keepsakes for tonight. Something to bring out when he's alone again or so pissed off that he can't see straight — to remind himself that he was grateful at one point for Jackson's life.

"Stiles...." Jackson kisses wetly at the angle of Stiles' jaw. "Shit," he hisses. "God, you're gonna—"

Everything tightens up for a second. Jackson's heels dig into Stiles' thighs, his fingers claw at Stiles' shoulder blades, and Stiles has to scoop his hand underneath Jackson just to feel the way he twitches and clenches around his dick as he comes between them. It drags out a few more jerking thrusts from Stiles, and he has to brace himself as he comes too, the last reserves of his pleasure strung out to his shivering limbs.

Though they spend a few seconds watching each other — breathing hard as they aim for eye contact but letting their gazes drift away — Stiles pulls away without saying anything. The moment feels shockingly heavy with everything neither of them are talking about, and Stiles sniffs hard as he ties off the condom and drops it in the trash. It feels an awful lot like he's getting rid of damning evidence of some kind. 

Jackson shifts on the bed, rubbing his heels against the sheets while his fingers trace circles through the streaks of white across his belly. From what little detail that Stiles can see in the pale moonlight, Jackson looks debauched — all open mouth and mussed hair and a faint sheen of sweat — but most of his expression is lost in shadow. Inexplicably, Stiles itches to touch Jackson again, to feel for himself whether Jackson is blushing or if he's breathing hard, but the idea of doing so strikes him as invasive, making them both a little more vulnerable. He compromises by slouching to the edge of the bed and snagging a tissue box on the way, handing it over almost like a peace offering.

"You okay?" Stiles asks.

"I'm fine," Jackson replies, sounding a little distant. He takes the tissues, but leaves the box between them without bothering to clean himself up. "Not exactly how I'd planned on ending the night, though."

"You and me both," Stiles admits and hooks his toes in the hem of his jeans to drag them closer. He clears his throat, feeling undeniably awkward. He should probably say something, rather than let them fall into silence. "So... what now?"

Jackson sort of shrugs. "What do you mean?"

"I feel like we've crossed some sort of threshold or something." Stiles gestures vaguely in a way that he hopes indicates the level that they were at and the level at which they're currently residing. "I don't know. Didn't we?"

Pushing up on his elbows, Jackson levels a guarded look at Stiles. "I thought this was just sex for you," he says.

Stiles nods absently, reassuring himself as much as Jackson that that's exactly what this is for him. Just sex. "Right. Yeah, of course. I mean, it couldn't possibly—" 

He stops. He breathes. He hunts around for his clothes in the darkness and avoids looking at Jackson as he dresses. Stiles hovers, though, after he pulls his hoodie back on, not quite ready to cut loose and shimmy down the side of Jackson's house to freedom. He knocks his knuckles against the window, reluctantly remembering the long bike ride has has ahead of him, and ends up seeing Jackson's reflection on the glass as he puts the tissue box back on the desk — still remarkably, handsomely naked.

"Leaving already?" Jackson asks, somehow managing to sound disappointed.

Jackson sounds close suddenly — and then he is close; he's a warm presence radiating at Stiles' back. Stiles holds his breath. He says, "Yeah, I guess. Just working up to it."

"It's getting cold. Winter's pretty much here already," Jackson comments. He sounds like he's working up to something and aiming for some terribly cliche segue into what he really wants. Stiles can feel it coming like a fist to the face — not that he's been all that great at anticipating punches tonight — and there he goes holding his breath again as Jackson asks, "So what are you doing for the Winter Formal?"

Stiles shrugs. "Probably nothing. Maybe go stag with Scott since—" He waves a hand around. "You know."

Stepping ever so slightly closer, Jackson murmurs into the soft cloth that covers Stiles' shoulder. "Maybe you could go stag with me instead."

Feeling a manic laugh burbling up behind his teeth, Stiles swallows it down, trying to decipher all the possibilities of that suggestion. He can only come up with one. "You're kidding, right?" 

"Forget it," Jackson snaps, moving away from Stiles so quickly that he may as well be running.

"I'm being serious here. Did you really just try to ask me to Formal with you?" Stiles asks, squinting to see if he can make out Jackson's features. Jackson fussing around with some of the dirty laundry in the corner of his room, pretending to be busy so that he can't see Stiles staring at him. "You just broke up with Lydia last week. Do you think I haven't seen you and Allison, too? You can ask her out if you're so desperate for a date."

"I'm not desperate for _anything_ ," Jackson snarls from across the room. 

"Sure, whatever," Stiles huffs back as he opens the window. "I'm just going to make my escape while the escaping's good and before you come up with some other great idea that's going to make my life more difficult."

"I don't do it on purpose, you know!" Jackson says just as Stiles is halfway onto the roof already. "I don't — I'm not doing all these things with Lydia or... or Allison to make you upset."

Stiles doesn't know what to say to that. He isn't sure how he can tell Jackson that he isn't upset about his breakup with Lydia — confused, certainly, and unsure whether it's Lydia's new singleness or Jackson's that makes him happier. The thing with Allison is weird, but it upsets Scott more than it does Stiles. Stiles wishes it wasn't happening because of that, but of all the things that Jackson's been doing lately....

"Maybe you should've thought about that before following a werewolf to your death in the middle of the night," Stiles suggests as casually as he feels he's able before shrugging. "Look, it doesn't matter. You said it yourself that what you do isn't my problem. This is me, not caring. So, what if you need a date for Winter Formal? Not my problem."

He swings the rest of his body through the window and shoves it shut behind him. He and Jackson stare each other down for a moment through the glass, but then the cold makes him shiver — or Jackson's peeved stare does — and Stiles pushes himself away, down the side of the house to his bike, and all the way back home.


	7. Chapter 7

Winter Formal.

It is, in a sense, the closest Stiles is going to get to the perfect prom. He's got a nice suit. He has flowers for Lydia. Lydia actually told him that they were going together. He's been imagining a night like this for like... _years_ , but as he stands in the foyer of Lydia's house, waiting for her to make a grand entrance, he smooths the front his jacket, feeling uneasy. 

Though Lydia is stunning when she comes down the stairs, she's not happy to be taking his arm — and _definitely_ not happy to be getting in a jeep — and Stiles is strangely grateful for the rigid silence she keeps up on the drive to the school. He thinks it's kind of great that they're two unhappy people going on a date unhappily together, but then he realizes that he's acknowledged being unhappy about finally achieving one of his life's greatest goals, and that just won't do. 

As they pull into the parking lot, Stiles sees Jackson before Lydia does — sees him sitting in his Porsche with Allison and tilting a flask in offering toward her. He doesn't know how he feels about Jackson taking Allison to the dance. Even though he knows he suggested it — even though he pushed for it right alongside Scott and for noble reasons too — seeing Jackson extend an arm for her makes Stiles' gut knot up in misery before he scrambles out of the Jeep to help Lydia out of the passenger seat. 

It's important, he thinks, to not let Jackson see either of them being lonely without him.

It's that determination, probably, that keeps him from doing anything truly stupid when Jackson makes a smug remark as he passes. Lydia is furious, of course. Stiles wouldn't expect her to be otherwise. He's never known her to take well to being overlooked or set aside, and with guilt sitting thick on his tongue, he tells her that she's beautiful. Better that truth than the other, more profound betrayal of having been fucking her boyfriend behind her back.

By the time he and Lydia get into the school gym, Stiles has this three point plan for the best night ever:

1\. Have fun with Lydia.  
2\. Make sure everyone sees him and Lydia having fun without Jackson. Especially Jackson.  
3\. Leave Jackson crying in the dust.

It's simple to follow and carry out, contains minimal violence, and best of all, is emotionally satisfying — all the things that Stiles likes best in a plan. The only downside, he quickly discovers, is that Lydia has no idea what a great plan this is. She stirs half heartedly at the punch he gets her. She spurns all conversation with snippy, upset remarks that are meant to cut and silence him. She watches Jackson and Allison dance with such a deep scowl that Stiles wants to tell her how much he sympathizes. Before his very eyes, Stiles' great three point plan is dissolving to pieces, and then Jackson happens to glance over, smirking.

What an asshole. 

"Lydia," Stiles says, almost speaking to her out if the side of his mouth, "do you wanna dance?"

"No," she says. "And if I did, it wouldn't be with you."

It's cold, but Stiles is not the kind of guy to back down from a challenge. In fact, Stiles is pretty sure that very trait is what has made his interactions with Jackson so volatile, since Stiles doesn't like much when others return the favor. It's not the kind of thing that Lydia responds kindly to either. Lydia happily makes him beg to dance and still says no. It's only when he unfolds a little, revealing how much he understands about her, that she finally capitulates and daintily lays her hand in his before letting him lead her to the dance floor.

It's a sweet victory made all the sweeter when he feels Jackson watching them.

It should be easy to concentrate on Lydia. She's gorgeous and dancing with him, and he's being allowed thin brushes of his fingers against her waist. Stiles is talking to her and Lydia's responding back in kind. It's amazing, but they're both distracted from each other — eyes skittering toward their onlookers, searching the crowd for Jackson.

For the most part, Jackson is a face that Stiles picks out of his periphery. He's someone that Stiles can't help noticing, but he refuses to look completely in his direction, though he's sure that Jackson can tell he's keeping track. Stiles deliberately moves so that Lydia's back is nearly always toward Jackson — when he's at the bar and tipping alcohol into Danny's cup, when he's leading Allison onto the dance floor and back off almost as quickly, when he's sidestepping Finstock as the coach goes after Scott, and when he emerges directly into Stiles' line of sight and meets his gaze as the band strikes up a slow song.

Lydia steps back from him almost immediately when she recognizes the song, but stops when Stiles clasps her fingertips.

"Wait," he says and has to tear his eyes from Jackson's face to give Lydia his attention. "Could we? Just once?"

She hesitates, glancing down at their joined hands, and then sighs. "Just the once," she agrees, lifting his hand to her waist and sliding close. "Don't get any ideas," she adds.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he promises, glancing toward Jackson as he presses his cheek against her temple.

Lydia smells like the strawberry sweetness of her shampoo, but Stiles barely notices as he tilts his face subtly toward her. His eyes are on Jackson, and now that he's looking unreservedly, he can't look away at all. Jackson stares and keeps staring, expression growing increasingly unreadable, and Stiles closes his eyes as he rocks from side to side with Lydia in his arms. When he opens his eyes again, Jackson is gone, and though Stiles keeps dancing with Lydia for a while longer, Jackson doesn't show up again.

It's ironic, Stiles thinks, that his dogged determination to keep Lydia as his priority tonight has turned out so dismally when she was the first point in his plan! Without Jackson there to see them, Stiles' attention is flitting around everywhere, from one corner of the gym to the other. 

He knows that he's looking. He can't help looking. He needs to know where Jackson is and what he's doing. Whether he's watching or getting a drink from the punch bowl or dancing with Allison. 

Or gone.

"You're distracted tonight," Lydia murmurs. "That's new."

"Sorry," Stiles says immediately, ducking his face against her shoulder and feeling like a total tool. "I don't mean to be."

Lydia hums quietly. "It's funny, I guess. I thought I'd be throwing off your advances like crazy, but... I don't know." Stiles lifts his head to see her smiling wryly. "You didn't seem as desperate for my attention tonight." Another pause makes her seem cautiously fragile, and Stiles takes a moment to wonder how well she's recovered from the end of Jackson's relationship with her — if she's managed to do any recovering at all. Almost as soon as he thinks it, Lydia is drawing herself up in his arms and smiling winningly at him. "I like you better like this," she says.

"H'yeah?" Stiles laughs. "You'd be the first," he says and glances around them again, searching. "But then, you've never really struck me as the needy type."

"Well, of course not," Lydia says with a faux haughtiness that Stiles doesn't believe at all. "I have better things to do than let my world revolve around other people. The attention is wonderful, of course, but I don't need people. Not like Jackson does, anyway."

Stiles' attention swerves sharply back to Lydia. "What?"

Her gaze is distant, but Stiles doesn't dare look, not even when her eyes flit toward him before returning to what surely must be Jackson. Simply thinking that it has to be him makes Stiles' neck burn.

"Jackson," Lydia repeats. "He's a liar and an idiot. He won't let anyone know when he needs something, and he doesn't say what he's thinking or why he does things. It's been worse lately. I mean, _obviously_." She waves a hand around as if to encompass their situation. "I don't know what's gotten into him."

He chokes off his retort of _'One of the things that's gotten into him would be moi,'_ before it can get further than his brain to mouth filter and manages to say instead, "Oh, you know Jackson. Must not know a good thing when he sees it."

She smiles wryly. "Must not," she agrees softly before abruptly stepping away. "You know, all this talk about Jackson is making me thirsty. You should be a better date and get me another drink."

Lydia's probably trying to make a joke, and although it comes out harsh, Stiles doesn't mind. He just nods and smiles and tells her that he'll be right back with that drink before slipping off of the dance floor. 

His mind has latched dizzily onto the idea of Jackson bring the needy type. As Stiles dodges and weaves a path to the punch bowl, he's carefully going over the details of their last conversation — not the snippy few seconds that passed in the parking lot but the one before that, when Jackson had asked him to Winter Formal and Stiles had assumed it to be some kind of charity. After all, it hadn't been like Stiles was fending off interested parties. Jackson had made it clear before; there was nothing going on between them but sex. Certainly not feelings, and certainly not need.

Stiles is ladling punch into cups and stamping down on his burgeoning hope when Jackson practically slides up next to him and says, "I see you're having fun. Getting your hands all over Lydia like that is a dream come true for you. You must be creaming your pants by now."

Stiles desperately wants to reply with something snappy out of the corner of his mouth, but there are people pressing in on either side of them. Plus, when he turns with drinks in hand, Jackson is looking extra shifty as he follows Stiles around the crowd of people. Stiles sighs, perhaps too deeply, and Jackson angles a narrow-eyed once over in his direction — and stops. Stops them both, in fact, with his hand catching Stiles' elbow.

 _Oh god, here it comes_ , Stiles thinks. His three point plan is circling right down the drain and into oblivion.

"Oh, holy shit, you _aren't,_ " Jackson says, getting closer. "What's the matter, Stilinski? She too much for you? Are Lydia's demands more than you thought they would be?"

Glancing over to where he left Lydia, Stiles finds that his hope for an escape or rescue are dashed by her being fully engrossed in a conversation with Danny. It seems like Jackson has no intention of letting go, though. He starts pulling Stiles aside, further from the band's speakers and into a quieter space so that he can interrogate Stiles in peace.

"Come on, tell me," Jackson urges eagerly as he takes the plastic cups from Stiles' hands and sets them on the empty tables they pass. Jackson pushes and pushes into his personal space until Stiles is beating a hasty retreat. He keeps reaching for Stiles, fingers curving around his shoulders and arms and wrists. "I wanna know. Did you confess to her? Did she crush your hopes and dreams already?"

Jackson has his hand splayed across Stiles' chest, pushing him against a wall. It's hot — that hand, and Lydia's words are screaming in Stiles' head: _Jackson needs people; he needs attention._ Avoiding Jackson's eyes, Stiles notices that the party is mostly obscured by the purple curtains that hang down from the ceiling. No one would notice if they did anything, probably, and flustered by the way Jackson's hand slides down to his elbow with a slow dragging heat, Stiles says, "No, that's—"

"Reality not quite shaping up to what you had in mind?" Jackson closes in on Stiles like a fucking wolf, demanding with a hand at Stiles' cheek that attention be paid to _him_ and not the party going on past the curtains. "Having second thoughts about wanting her?"

"I don't want her," Stiles cuts in when the pressure of Jackson's gaze becomes too much, and then he swallows nervously when he sees surprise brighten Jackson's face. Stiles is surprised too, but now that they're out there, he's relieved to realize how honest those words felt.. "I don't," he says, trying the words out once more. "I don't want Lydia."

Jackson looks at him suspiciously, then abruptly, he laughs — a quick, derisive bark — as he pushes away from Stiles. "Really," he says doubtfully, kicking at the ground. "Since when?"

Stiles' hands are slack against his sides. He wishes that Jackson hadn't taken the drinks from him earlier; at least then, he'd have something to occupy his hands with while he thinks, trying to identify exactly when Lydia dropped from his priorities. If Stiles is going to be honest — and he wants to be — then Lydia hasn't been at the forefront of his mind at all tonight. Maybe she hasn't been there for a while and he's been too busy wrapped up in other things to notice — things like werewolves and people dying and _Jackson_...

His hesitation is apparently too much for Jackson to take because he gets in Stiles' space with even more fervor than before. "Don't you know?" 

"No!" Stiles blurts out, shoving Jackson. "Christ, I don't know, okay?" He dusts himself off with a scowl. "And what does it matter to you when?"

"It doesn't matter!" Jackson snaps quickly, and Stiles finds himself spitting, "Liar!" in return. 

Jackson stares at him with these big, stupid, eager eyes, and for what feels like the first time in his life, Stiles searches for the right words to say. "You— you wouldn't ask if it didn't matter," he tells Jackson. "Not only about the timing, but making sure that I've been miserable tonight and why. Those things matter to you because—"

Stiles breaks off when Jackson takes a sudden step back, when he starts moving toward the party like he's going to make a run for it. When he catches Jackson's elbow, Stiles can see it in his face — the fear that sits in his features like it belongs there — and is fascinated by it.

"You need to know," Stiles murmurs with this spark of understanding burning brighter with every word he utters. "Like Lydia said, you need people and attention, and you can't tell them what you need because you're too proud for that. So you make sure of it in other ways."

"Stop," Jackson whispers shakily, but Stiles is on a roll now, practically boiling over with epiphany.

"You need me to be unhappy with Lydia," he says. There's no small amount of awe in his voice. "All tonight, you've been shoving in Lydia's face that you're so much happier on your own, and I've been doing my damndest to keep her from seeing it. But you don't actually care about Lydia, do you? You didn't break up with her to prove a point. You broke up with her because you didn't need her anymore."

Jackson's looking a billion times more anxious than he was at the punch bowl, throwing glances left and right to see if there's anyone around to hear Stiles' great big theory. There's no one, of course. All the students are in the bleachers or on the dance floor, but no one's here, in the dark spaces between the stands — not even the faculty chaperones. 

"You found something else — something more satisfying than having the hottest, most popular girl in school at your side." Stiles is thinking aloud now, thoughts whirling at a frantic pace and mouth almost unable to keep up in his excitement. "It couldn't be the werewolf thing — or not only anyway — because if anything, finding out has only made you more desperate."

Stiles is so close to a conclusion that he can taste it like blood across his tongue, but when he goes to say the words, he hesitates. He and Jackson have completely traded places now, with Jackson caught between Stiles and the wall, and Jackson meets his gaze with a hard, daring stare. Stiles opens his mouth again and stops. Giving the idea voice makes it a possibility, and that's dangerous. Stiles is quite happy with the idea remaining in the realm of fantasy — only to be acknowledged during the long, lonely nights that are likely to make up Stiles' future.

Jackson sneers. "Go on. Say it." 

Despite Jackson egging him on, Stiles refrains. He can see the terror written across his face, clear as day, when he touches Jackson's cheek and gets a look of surprise in return. Stiles gets it now. He's sure of it, and maybe if he weren't feeling so certain, he'd give in to the way Jackson pushes at him with his sharp tone. 

It's ridiculous, Stiles thinks, that they've played this game so long without realizing it. They've followed these unspoken rules so closely that taking the first steps again — waspishly trading harsh words as they circle around each other — starts them irrevocably down the remainder of the path.

Stiles doesn't say a word. He doesn't feel like he needs to anymore. Why should he, now that he's thinking about it? He knows where they're going with this. He knows that Jackson's instinctive behavior betrays him. It's classical conditioning at its finest, and Stiles feels it too — that low pull in his gut when Jackson's expression takes an angry turn at the continued silence. Why bother fighting it? Why bother taking the difficult path when Stiles recognizes their destination? 

Besides, Stiles said so himself earlier, too, though perhaps not in so many words — that Lydia hasn't been on his mind at all tonight because Jackson's been there instead, quiet and subtle and irrepressible. 

Before Jackson can work his temper up for a fresh argument, Stiles kisses him. It's nearly confusing without his heart pounding from a good fight or his throat warm from shouting, but Jackson's mouth is the same, right down to the slight pause before he gives in.

The kiss is gentle. A soft press of their mouths. The easy drag as he finds Jackson's upper lip, his lower, the crease in the corner. None of this is unfamiliar territory. Stiles has kissed this same mouth hundreds of times, but never this simply or quietly. Before, it was always hard — the two of them crashing together and hating each other for it — but here, in the purple hued light, Stiles decides that he likes it better this way, at least for now.

Jackson makes a terrible sound between them and pushes at Stiles to get some space. He's breathing unsteadily, and his eyes flick this way and that, can't linger for one second in any particular place. Stiles kisses him again — god, because he can, he knows he can — and Jackson's cry is muffled between the mash of their lips. 

The music is loud, vibrating through Stiles' chest and making it near impossible to know that Jackson's moaning. He wouldn't know at all if they weren't so close — if those sounds weren't being pressed into the shell of his ear while he sucks spots of red along Jackson's throat — and that's an awful inconvenience.

"Come on," he says, backing up. Jackson's fingers clutch at him briefly before the invitation registers, and then he's following after Stiles, chasing him step for step. "I wanna go someplace where I can hear you."

Stiles isn't entirely sure where he's leading Jackson. They both keep a lookout for the faculty chaperones between persistent kisses in the middle of the hall or against the lockers or once — awkwardly — against the water fountains with Jackson pressing Stiles back so far that he gets water on his suit vest.

(He doesn't mind it a great deal. He's pretty sure, after all, that he's going to be taking off this vest sometime in the next five minutes.)

The hall is exposed, though, and they stumble together — wanting to find some place private, but not quite willing to part for long enough to make searching easier.

Just once, they hear the chatter of voices over the hard bass from the band — the drawling complaints from Mr. Harris and Coach Finstock's louder, gruffer responses — and they throw themselves into the nearest doorway, hiding in its narrow shadow. Stiles crowds Jackson into the wall and brackets him in with his arms, breathing hard as he strains to listen as Harris' and Finstock's voices get closer.

Jackson's hands are twitchy, fidgety things against his sides, sliding under his vest to tug at his shirt. He pulls steadily, and Stiles' shirt gives way, slipping out from under the cinch of his belt to reveal skin. Then Jackson's hands are there too, thumbs scraping under his ribs as Jackson touches his waist.

He doesn't want to say anything, afraid that the slightest word might draw their teachers' attention, bring them down to this part of the hall, but Jackson apparently has no such compunction. His hands slide to Stiles' front — knuckles to his navel, making Stiles' gut shiver and drop — and then his fingers hook under the waist of his pants and tug him in close.

Jackson sighs softly — so, so softly. He says, "I can't wait to get these clothes off you."

The curse on the tip of his tongue gets shoved into Jackson's mouth instead. Stiles licks it right against Jackson's teeth, so that he's not saying it aloud. He tries so hard to quiet their usual noises, pulling away with a slack mouth so that he's not sucking at Jackson's lips — and god, it's harder than anything he's done to catch Jackson's hands before they start undoing his belt, to look down the hall to see if Finstock and Harris are still there.

They are.

Of course they are.

"How do you feel about getting caught?" Jackson whispers quietly.

"Not a fan, personally," Stiles replies.

Jackson nips at his jaw. "How about almost caught?"

"They're like ten feet from us!" Stiles says — a tad too loudly — and he and Jackson hover quietly against each other, motionless, as they listen for footsteps.

When nothing happens for a moment, Jackson pushes Stiles away, hand going for the handle of the door that they're huddled near. Very, very slowly, he tests the latch and pulls. Miraculously, the door opens silently. Opening the door to make room, Jackson ducks out from under Stiles' arm and through the narrow space, and Stiles follows, wincing when the door latches with a click. Just in case, he throws the lock as softly as he can, hoping that Harris and Finstock don't come to investigate — or if they do, that they move on when they find the door locked.

It's only when he turns that Stiles realizes that they're in the boy's locker room.

"Huh," he says. "Different at night." As if he doesn't know perfectly well what the locker room is like when it's dark — as if Scott hasn't almost killed him against those benches or as if he hasn't torn through these spaces, running from an Alpha.

Jackson is deeper into the locker room already, dumping his suit jacket on one of the benches as he turns to look over his shoulder. He pulls at the buttons of his shirt one handed while the other goes down to cup at his dick. He says, "Are you actually admiring the locker room right now?"

"What can I say," Stiles teases, drifting toward Jackson again and watching as his fingers hook behind the knot of his tie and yank. Stiles hides a finger between the buttons of Jackson's shirt as a flush works up his neck. "It's a bit hard to ignore my surroundings at the moment."

It's weird — nerve wracking, actually, to be making small talk like this. To be saying these stupid, cheesy lines that are barely on this side of antagonism. Stiles means them to be snippy, but when he hears the words come out of his mouth — god, they're almost fond.

Jackson's lips press together in a tiny smile, and he lets Stiles tug him closer. He cups Stiles' face, and just like that, they're kissing again — mouths sliding slick and slow and heavy. Trapped alone with Jackson like this, with the threat of being caught behind them, Stiles is somewhat embarrassed to realize that he'd be quite happy to stay like this — kissing him in the dark with music as a dull heartbeat in the background, easily ignorable in favor of Jackson's soft sighs.

"Let's get these off," Jackson says, unbuttoning Stiles' vest and pushing it off before making quick work of the buttons on his shirt. His fingers sneak in under the fabric, peeling the patch of wet cloth away and leaving Stiles' skin cool and damp.

Stiles wants to undress Jackson too, but is surprised at how slow he's willing to take it. There's no urgency here, no rush to get it all over with in the short time that they burn hot. Stiles is warm, flushed with excitement, yes — but with nothing to stop them here, there's no reason he shouldn't savor the moment.

When it comes down to it, Stiles knows a great deal about Jackson's body, but there is so much that he's missed in the rush. Jackson's a reluctant kisser on the best of days — always a lot of teeth and with a tendency for more bruising pressure — but when coaxed into it and certain of his welcome, he can be almost considerate and more willing to contentedly explore. Stiles weaves his fingers in Jackson's hair, remembering that he likes that, and holds him close as he takes long tastes of his mouth. Jackson is wonderfully responsive to that, fighting it every step of the way and trying to match it — pull for pull, taste for taste, as he claws the shirt right off Stiles' shoulders.

The shirt gives him trouble. Cuffs that won't unbutton and sleeves that bunch at the elbows, and Jackson doesn't give him a second of slack. He holds fast to Stiles' mouth, nails scratching at the back of his head. Jackson seems delighted when he finds out that Stiles' hands are caught — that Stiles can't stop wanting to touch Jackson long enough to untangle himself. Jackson's smile is so broad that it makes kissing impossible, and Stiles folds into him as his arms snake around Stiles' waist to twist in his shirt. It yanks Stiles' shoulders back as he kisses at a smattering of freckles behind Jackson's ear.

Jackson laughs as he holds Stiles fast in his tangled clothes and says, "Yeah, let's keep you like this for a bit. I want to do something." He shuffles Stiles backward until his legs hits one of the benches and he's forced to sit. Jackson's hand squeezes over Stiles' bare skin. "Stay there. Don't move."

Stiles tips his head back when Jackson kisses him leisurely and grips the rear edge of the bench to keep from fidgeting out of the shirt. He doesn't know what Jackson's planning or what he wants, but Stiles is happy to watch as Jackson undresses in the vee of his legs. 

Jackson has expensive taste — or he puts on a good show of having expensive taste — and this close up, it's easy to see what money can buy. Stiles doesn't know anything about fabric or seashell buttons or anything, but he's felt Jackson's clothes for himself. He knows that it's soft and tightly woven, and the buttons aren't the clumsy plastic bits Stiles has on his shirt. They shine in the dim lights that stream in through the high windows on the wall, and Jackson's fingers carefully push each of them through, revealing bit by bit the undershirt underneath.

Jackson's nails are neat too — polished but plain — and at any other time, Stiles might tease Jackson for being finicky about appearances to this degree. Instead, Stiles leans forward as those fingers slide down with each successive button and sucks one of the knuckles into his mouth. There's a soft exhale above him, and Stiles looks up in time for Jackson to mash their mouths together again. He returns the kiss as hard as he can without moving too much from where he sits.

When Jackson withdraws with a thick gasp, Stiles nearly follows him and catches himself with a groan. "You want that?" he asks, pressing his face into the part of Jackson's shirt and nosing downward — to Jackson's belt and lower. "I remember, you liked when I did it last time."

"Yeah," Jackson says, sounding a little dazed, and his fingers carve encouraging lines against Stiles' skull before he seems to gather himself again. "I mean, no — I... I wanted to try something different."

Then he's pushing Stiles back. Jackson's knees hit the floor with a dull thud, and his hands ease Stiles' knees further apart to make room. During all the other times they've been together, Jackson's never done this.

Stiles swallows thickly and spreads his legs in the manner Jackson wants.

They've gotten close, maybe. Jackson's touched him. Stiles has vivid memories of all the times that Jackson's hand has screwed him up and screwed him down and made him come so hard that Stiles fell apart for him. He knows the grip and texture of Jackson's fist as well as his own, nearly, for all the times that Stiles has run through those memories during the droughts between their meetups, but Stiles can't help that his breath becomes unsteady when Jackson leans forward to press his mouth to Stiles' breastbone before sliding those lips slowly down the line of his body.

Then Jackson inhales as he hits Stiles' belt, and when he breathes out again, it's a deep, hot sigh right against the bulge of Stiles' dick.

"Fuck, Jackson," Stiles curses, already shaking.

Jackson shoulders lower, spine dipping into an arch. One hand splays broadly over Stiles' right knee and presses him open. Jackson groans, mouth opening wide over Stiles' zipper like he's thinking that he could maybe suck Stiles off like that, right through the fabric.

Stiles' keeps a white knuckled grip on the bench for the sake of his sanity. He wants desperately to touch Jackson like this, or to undo his pants to speed things along because he's so close already. He doesn't think he could take the humiliation of coming in his pants when they're this far along. He also wants to say things. He wants to wonder aloud if Jackson has thought of this before as Stiles suspects. Stiles wants to confess that he's thought of it too, but never thought — never dared to think — that Jackson might actually do it some day.

He feels hot with the urge to speak, but he bites back every damn word. The last time he and Jackson were in the locker room together like this, Stiles remembers too clearly how his words had started it and then ended it too quickly. He's intimately aware of how the wrong words could mess up what has so far been a very good change in his evening.

Jackson's stare is dark and intense as he drags his tongue over the middle seam of Stiles' pants, and Stiles chews hard on his lip, gasping in relief only when Jackson undoes his pants and pulls them open.

Shifting on his knees to get more comfortable, Jackson rises up and kisses him again. His hands are hot on Stiles' waist as he encourages his hips up so that he can tug his pants down for room. While they're there, they find the mess of Stiles' shirt and pull until Stiles has to arch into Jackson to accommodate the way his wrists are pulled closer together.

"Hmm, good," Jackson murmurs and slides down, kissing at one nipple, then his ribs, and then his navel.

Next it's fingers under the elastic of Stiles' underwear, folding the thin cloth up, over, and behind the weight of Stiles' dick. Jackson's knuckles trace the length of it, and Stiles bucks into the touch without meaning to. It earns a bit of laughter from Jackson, and Stiles almost apologizes — but then Jackson's lifting Stiles' dick from his belly and licking around the head. Needless to say, he chokes on his words.

Humming again, Jackson sucks at Stiles' dick and kisses the tip with a wet smack. "Wondered about this," he says softly. That's one curiosity satisfied for the both of them. Then, lashes fanning out over his cheeks, Jackson takes Stiles back into his mouth.

Jackson's mouth is hot — hotter than he thought it would be — and Stiles holds himself as motionless as he can, trembling with the effort and breathing harshly as he watches Jackson's mouth pull firmly around his length and slide down.

It's unbelievable, the sight of it. The way Jackson's cheeks hollow. The way his hair dips down — though it's not so long as to obscure Stiles' view.. His tongue is slow on the underside of Stiles' dick, laying flat as Jackson tries to take him deeper and twitching up hard whenever he goes too far.

Jackson pulls off with a frustrated sound and says, "You—" His fingers are digging into Stiles' thighs, and Stiles wants to kiss him again. "You should tell me if I'm doing it wrong, okay? And tell me... Tell me if I'm doing something you like."

"You're good," Stiles says immediately, voice thick from restraining himself for so long. "I mean, yeah, you're good. I mean, it's obvious, isn't it?"

Jackson's palm cups the curve of Stiles' dick, and he leans in, smiling warmly. "Tell me anyway," he says and then he's bowing over Stiles' lap again and sucking him down.

"Shit," Stiles hisses, and his hands jerk apart to steady him, pulling short when the shirt that still binds him reaches its limits. "Fuck, your mouth is so—" He laughs at himself. "God, I want to fuck it. I want to fuck your mouth like you did mine."

Jackson makes a sound around Stiles' cock then — a sort of surprised, yearning sound — and Stiles carefully rocks his hips up. He doesn't even lift up off the bench, really. Just clenches his body tightly and then relaxes and then does it over again, circling into the greedy pull of Jackson's mouth while he lets nonsense drop from his lips.

"Wanted your mouth for a long time. Wanted to see it stretched around my dick," he says. "I hope you like it as much as I did — that it feels as good for you."

"You're so good at this," he says when Jackson's throat finally yields a little for Stiles to go deeper, and Jackson nuzzles closer with a hard breath. Jackson moans around him then, and Stiles jerks forward to bow over him, panting, "Wait — wait, Jesus. I'm gonna blow—"

But Jackson continues to suck at him anyway — a little longer, a little harder. Stiles' voice trails off in a long, drawn sound, and he presses his face against Jackson's back as he comes, puffing hot wet air into the fabric of his shirt.

Stiles is fighting for breath when Jackson's mouth slides off the end of his dick with an shameless slurp. He's dizzy with want, but also lazy with it. When Jackson rises to kiss him, Stiles doesn't think about the taste. He returns the kiss with an easy-going carelessness while Jackson pulls off his shirts and tosses them aside in a crumpled ball.

"Stiles," Jackson says. "There's another thing I want and—"

"Yes," Stiles agrees urgently — moans it right into Jackson's mouth, only to blink owlishly a second later when Jackson is climbing to his feet and going to his locker.

Jackson rummages through the top shelf for a bit, pushing aside deodorant and a bottle of cologne, and when his hand reappears, his fingers are wrapped uncertainly around a bottle of lube.

"You keep that in your locker?" Stiles asks, mouth quirking in amusement. "Really?" Jackson's face goes pink with embarrassment, and Stiles awkwardly leans back. "Alright," he says agreeably. He's winded, though, to be honest, and doesn't mind some distance to get himself under control. "What did you have in mind?"

The bottle of lube gets turned over and over in Jackson's hand as he sits near Stiles. "Well," he says and strokes Stiles' thigh, soothing him and thumbing near where his dick lays exposed and half hard. "I was thinking that—"

Jackson hesitates. It's adorable, really.

Stiles lifts his knee to lay it over Jackson's lap. Now that Jackson's gotten rid of some of his clothes, there's a lot of skin available to admire, but with the shirt around his arms, Stiles has to make do with this.

"Come here," Stiles says. Jackson shifts to straddle the bench, and with some hesitation, grabs him by the' thighs, pulling him close. Stiles sort of laughs. "Try again," he says. "Tell me what you want."

Jackson tries to hide a smile, and Stiles pushes a bit more. There are only so many options that are available when lube is being brought out.

"You wanna fuck me?" Stiles guesses, pleased at the idea.

He can see the moment when Jackson's embarrassment gets twisted into nervous bravado. When Jackson takes his fear and shoves it aside, seizing for what he wants with a force that Stiles is only beginning to admire.

Jackson lifts his chin. There's a smug smile on his face. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I wanna know what it's like to make to you totally lose it."

Stiles' face heats up. "Haven't you already made me lose it?"

"It's not the same," Jackson insists. "I wanna feel it the way you did when I—" He cuts himself off. Bravery can only go so far, it seems. But Stiles gets it.

"Kiss me," he says, suddenly terribly anxious to be touched by Jackson.

He squirms, grabbing at either side of the bench for stability. The bench is wide enough to match the breadth of his body, which is nice, but he wonders if maybe it wouldn't be better to try this on the floor.

"Kiss me," he says once more. "And god, get these clothes off me."

The scramble to get undressed completely is absurdly hilarious. Stiles ends up laughing as he tries to brace himself against the pull of Jackson's hands as they yank at Stiles' shoes, at his socks and pants. It seems less funny — though not in a bad way — when Jackson sees him fiddling with his cuffs to free his hands and stops him.

"Leave it," Jackson says softly. "Please?"

Stiles doesn't ask why, but he nods, breath quickening. He wonders if Jackson has managed to get the bite without anyone knowing. It's not like having his hands caught like this is a detriment, exactly, but Stiles is awfully aware now of how limited his range of motion is.

When Jackson kisses him in relief, Stiles can only lift his hands enough to grab at his arms. When Jackson moves down, Stiles has the slack to touch his shoulders and then the sides of his face, but he can't do more than grip loosely. He certainly can't guide Jackson anywhere. Jackson's gonna be able to do whatever he wants, and that thrills Stiles as much as it scares him.

There's a pop and a pause, and Stiles tenses in anticipation just before Jackson's fingers slide behind his balls and then down. They're cold, and Stiles shivers as they press between his cheeks and over his hole. Stiles makes some kind of noise as those fingers sort of circle around their goal, warming him up maybe — getting him used to the idea of having something there.

"Have you ever done this before?" Jackson asks. His gaze was, up until this point, locked on the place between Stiles' legs, but he glances up now, all curiosity and caution.

"Sure, loads of times," Stiles lies, though his body chooses in the next second to jerk from Jackson's touch as a finger catches the rim and presses in a bit. "Totally a daily thing for me. Sometimes twice a day!"

"I can stop," Jackson replies. He seems poised for inevitable rejection.

"No, it's not—" Stiles drops his head onto the bench with a thunk. "It's not _bad_ or anything. It's just— I've never tried it before."

There's a moment — awkward, silent. Stiles waits for Jackson to pack up and move on, and he's surprised when Jackson comes back with slicker fingers — more so when he drops a leg to the side to give Jackson room and turns his face to the side to gasp tightly against his own shoulder.

"I was sensitive too when I first tried," Jackson says, sounding almost blase as he continues to massage around Stiles' opening — fingers drifting away and back again and making Stiles burn with want. "There was nothing like it at first. It was too much. It was really intense."

Intense doesn't quite cover it for Stiles.

He can't tear his attention from Jackson's fingers. His brain is narrowed to the sliver of space between his legs where they slide across his skin. His breath is a shaky storm in his ears, and Jackson's voice, a distant hum. Even Jackson's other hand, steady as a rock across his hip, is something that Stiles can barely acknowledge. Every time he tries to focus on something else, Jackson's fingers move or they press harder, and Stiles loses his senses again.

He doesn't hear himself when he tells Jackson to put it in him already, but he hears how everything goes still when Jackson does as he's told — when one of Jackson's fingers presses in to the first knuckle, then the second.

Jackson's fingers go in further than Stiles thinks he's ready for, but he only ends up arching with it, clenching down lightly and trying to force himself to relax. A soft whine slips out of Stiles' throat, but Jackson doesn't move — doesn't fuck him yet, just waits and waits and kisses Stiles' belly while he adjusts.

Stiles gets used to it. Jackson's fingers leave him and come back, and each time, Stiles feels a little more open and a little more ready for the way Jackson pushes the limits of what he thinks he can take. It's steady, this slick systematic method of loosening him up — _making me ready_ , he thinks through the haze.

He hadn't had to do this with Jackson, last time. Then, Jackson had been so open already that Stiles barely needed to pay attention before he was inside him. It's startling to think now of how long Jackson might have been working on himself then, long before Stiles climbed through his window. Or of how often Jackson does this to himself to be able to do the same to Stiles such efficiency.

"Almost there," Jackson assures him, rubbing at the hard curve of Stiles' spine. Jackson nips at his skin and screws his fingers in as deep as they can go, until Stiles is digging his fingers into the meat of Jackson's arm.

"Fucker," Stiles says, when he can think again — finally. He can't stop shaking. It's like he's been pinned with Jackson's fingers sliding so far inside. "How can you tell?"

Jackson smiles and lifts one of Stiles' legs over his shoulder before pushing his fingers in again. Stiles' eyes flutter, and he shifts to take Jackson's fingers more easily. "Like that," he says.

Yet Jackson doesn't seem to be in any particular rush to get on with it. His eyes are hooded as they scan Stiles' body. There's no way — no possible way — that Stiles could misunderstand the heat in that look or how he responds to it. Blood warms him like a fever, stirring down into his bones and making him restless. 

"Jackson," he says and adjusts his leg on Jackson's shoulder. "What are you waiting for?"

It's different from this side of things. Last time, everything happened so fast — barely a handful of seconds between fingering Jackson to fucking him. It was enough time to roll on a condom and then— 

"Oh, fuck, condom. Do you have one?"

"Yeah, give me a sec," and Jackson rises off the bench to shove his hand in his pocket. 

If he stretches his fingers out, Stiles can outline the bulge of Jackson's cock through his pants. Above him, Jackson huffs at his touch and holds the condom between his teeth by the edge of its foil packaging before meeting Stiles' fingers at the waist of his pants. Jackson undoes his belt and shoves his clothes down just enough to get to his cock, and god, Stiles had forgotten how wet it gets when Jackson's aroused.

He finds himself pulling at Jackson with his leg and skating his fingers along the underside of Jackson's dick — feeling how much he's leaked already and the dampness of his underwear as Stiles helps to push it down further.

"Actually, wait," Stiles says. His tongue darts out across his lower lip. He's holding Jackson's length in the curve of his palm and suddenly wants it to be inside him exactly like this, obscenely wet and with nothing to hide that. "What do you say we forget the condom this time?"

Stiles can tell that he's shocked Jackson when he freezes, and he grins slyly as he bites his lip. "It'd be cool, yeah?" he says. "I could feel all of you, and you could too." But Jackson's so quiet that Stiles starts to doubt how well his idea is being received. "If you want it, that's cool too. I just thought I'd say something."

Jackson squeezes his hand around the leg that's thrown over his shoulder and pulls the condom from between his teeth, holding the pack flat against Stiles' skin. "Kind of a big deal to not have a condom," Jackson ventures. "You sure you want that?"

Nodding, though not sure if he's answering the same question they started out with, Stiles says, "Yeah. Let's do this."

The condom gets dropped to the side without further discussion, and Stiles watches, breath wavering with anticipation, as Jackson takes himself in hand, strokes a few times to spread the slick, and angles the round head of his dick toward Stiles' body.

He's sure that he knows what to expect. He's imagined this lots of times, in some fashion or another — and only a moment ago, he had Jackson's fingers inside him besides — but when Jackson rubs the wet tip of his dick on the edge of his opening, Stiles feels a thick pearl of precome well up against his rim. It makes Stiles shiver so hard that he's sure he's undone all the work it took to open him up in the first place.

Jackson grips his thigh and says, "Relax."

And Stiles tries — he does. He tries to bear down as Jackson pushes in, feeling like he's being spread so fucking wide — unaware of holding his breath or of pressing against Jackson's abdomen with his fingers, silently keeping him from going any faster. Jackson tells him to breathe in a soft voice, and he sucks in air greedily in response. Only to let it all out in a moan when Jackson slides completely inside him with one slick thrust. Jackson is trembling when he bottoms out, and yet he still lifts Stiles' leg high over his shoulder and presses that much closer, wrangling another sound out of Stiles' throat.

"I can wait," Jackson says. "If you need time adjust, I can—"

"Don't stop," Stiles cuts him off. 

He feels full to the point of bursting already, and with every second that Jackson stays still, he seems a little more stretched — a little more vulnerable. It was less frightening when Jackson was moving, when Stiles' nerves were wholly occupied with telling him what it felt like to have the smooth glide of Jackson's dick inside him — to have the pressure and the power behind it.

"I want you to fuck me," he tells Jackson, lifting his other leg to hook it around Jackson's waist. "Come on, fuck me, please."

Jackson groans, pulling back, and when he drives forward again, he keeps on going without needing to be urged. Every thrust leaves Stiles hungry for air. Jackson is everywhere around him. Stiles can't open his eyes without seeing Jackson moving above him, can't breathe without tasting his sweat or cologne, can't move without feeling how it changes the way Jackson fucks him. He feels taken — consumed. That's a better word for it: consumed and burning hot with every drag of Jackson's cock.

It takes Stiles a while to realize that his own erection is demanding attention, but the idea of taking his hands off Jackson for one second seems unbearable at the moment — even to find release. He needs, though, and he thrashes for it, arching off the bench and digging his heel into Jackson's back. He's begging for more. Those pleading whimpers he hears? They're his.

"Easy," Jackson says and lets Stiles' leg drop from his shoulder. Stiles whines as Jackson moves to lean over him. "Easy, I know."

Jackson's arms scoop under Stiles' back and lift him into a sitting position. Stiles goes easily, clinging for purchase on sweaty skin — voice hitching with every shift of Jackson's dick inside him. It feels dirty to have it moving that way. Different than the push and pull of a normal thrust. More suggestive of how intimately they're connected.

Stiles' legs fall from around Jackson's waist, and Jacksons hefts him properly into his lap, wrenching a throaty cry out of Stiles before he abruptly drops away. Blinking at being left sitting upright alone so suddenly, Stiles looks down at Jackson and where Jackson's hands cover his hips under the folds of his shirt.

"Oh, yeah," Stiles says as his feet find the floor, and his hands, Jackson's thighs. It forces him to arch a bit, but also gives him control to move as he pleases. "This is naughty."

"You like it?" Jackson asks. 

Stiles rocks forward and back again experimentally. A low, satisfied hum melts out of him when he sees Jackson's jaw go slack and feels Jackson's hips lift to meet him. "I could get used to it."

Riding Jackson is rough. Stiles had been close already when Jackson changed their positions, and now that he can control how deep and fast they come together, Stiles doesn't hold back. His fingers dig into the taut thickness of Jackson's legs, using it for both support and leverage, and his feet stay planted firmly on the ground as he takes Jackson's dick as deep as he can and screws his hips in a hard circle. His body aches from how quickly he tires. Cramps are a looming threat, and Stiles grits out a frustrated whimper as his body clenches down around Jackson's length.

"God, Stiles," Jackson breathes, pushing up from the bench with one arm and gripping the back of Stiles' skull with the other hand. He kisses Stiles with a furious passion — the kind that eats at Stiles' inhibitions until he's dragging his nails hard down Jackson's chest and sobbing, "Touch me," into his mouth.

Jackson's hand sweeps down between them at once and wraps tight around Stiles' cock, yanking once, twice, until he comes with a hoarse shout between them.

It takes some time for Stiles to come to his senses again — for the punch drunk sensations to ease back until he only feels wobbly. When he takes stock of his situation, he can't stop the wicked little way he tightens up around Jackson's softening cock to hear him complain, though it's only a grunt. Stiles bites his lip as they slip apart and Jackson's come leaves him feeling a little soaked and a lot dirty. 

Tired beyond belief, Stiles rests his head against Jackson's shoulder and blindly fumbles with his cuffs again. It's slow, uncoordinated work with his concentration not being in the best of shapes, but he manages, letting his arms drop slackly against Jackson's sides. Stiles sniffs, wondering if he's too heavy for Jackson's comfort and maybe he should just roll off onto the floor, but he stays where he is when Jackson's hand catches his hip and lingers. 

"So that was—" 

Stiles stops, not sure what words he could use here, if any. It seems kind of impossible to wrap up what just happened in just a few. He can think of several that he'd like to use — like, _incredible_ or _fucking amazing_ — but even those come off as lacking, when they couldn't possibly cover the way Jackson looked at him sometimes. Like he was shy and thrilled and like Stiles had so much power over him.

But Jackson's fingers are feather light down his spine now, and as for himself, Stiles can't stop drawing around the lines of red he carved into Jackson's skin with his blunt nails. They've never really ended their encounters like this — putting off their separation for as long as they can and laying skin to skin, sharing air — and Stiles sighs, shifting to find a comfortable spot. Underneath him, Jackson does the same and stretches out his legs — first one, then the other, and then the first one again.

A small laugh escapes Stiles' lips, and it's followed helplessly by another and another until he's shaking from all the laughter sliding through him. He props his chin on the back of one hand and looks up at Jackson.

"Sorry, it's just—" Stiles licks his lips and smiles. "This bench really sucks for cuddling."

Stiles can see the smile that's teasing the corners of Jackson's mouth when he hears the first rattle of the door and then Finstock's voice beyond that, swearing. It's a scramble immediately — with Stiles yanking on his pants and grabbing their shoes and Jackson scooping up the rest in his arms as they dart toward the entrance that leads toward the lacrosse field.

He's stumbling at first, legs still feeling like jelly, but then Jackson's there, grabbing his hand and holding tight as he leads them around the side of the building. They have to hide in the shadows as they make themselves presentable again, shivering in the winter chill, but soon, Stiles is back in the glow of the gym again, getting feeling back in his face and his toes and... Well, one of his hands is grateful for the heat, anyway.

The other is caught warmly in Jackson's grasp again. 

Briefly, Stiles recalls the three point plan he made at the start of the night, when he was walking into the same party with Lydia instead of Jackson, and he casts it aside without another thought. His plans have a terrible habit of going haywire these days, and besides — Stiles knocks shoulders with Jackson and earns a small smirk in response — he ended up having a damn good night anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone that's waited so long for this final chapter! I really appreciate your patience with me. This chapter's been a long, _long_ time coming and I hope it's satisfying. Thanks to everyone again, and Happy New Year!
> 
> ~The End~


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